cJL 


THE  MOTHER. 


BY  T.  S.  ARTHUR, 


AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MATDEU"  AND  "THE   WLfJS. 


.X111.ADELPHIA: 
HENRY    F.   ANNERS. 

1847. 


TO   THE   READER 


In  this  little  volume,  the  author  has  not  attempt- 
ed to  lay  down  any  regular  system  of  domestic 
education.  His  object  has  been  to  present  leading 
principles — partially  brought  out  into  life  to  give 
them  a  force  beyond  a  mere  didactic  enunciation — 
from  which  every  thoughtful  mother  may  deduce 
rules  for  specific  application  in  her  own  family. 
The  book  is  rather  a  series  of  domestic  pictures 
than  a  sustained  narrative.  This  latter  character 
could  not  have  been  given  to  it  without  a  sacrifice 
of  much  that  the  author  wished  to  present.  He 
hopes  that  it  will  be  useful.  He  is  sure  that  it 
will  be  so  if  read  ariijht. 


m 


2051428 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTION 7 

CHAPTER  n. 

BEGINNING  RIGHT 17 

CHAPTER  m. 

MEANS  AND  ENDS 22 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  SECRET  OF  GOVERNING  CHILDREN 33 

CHAPTER  V. 

A  mother's  INFLUENCE 37 

CHAPTER  VL 

THE  BIRTH-DAY  PARTY 54 

CHAPEER  Vn. 

CORRECTING  A  FAULT. »-      64 

CHAPTER  Vm. 

A  STRONG  CONTRAST 72 

1*  V 


Tl  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

MORE  CONTRASTS 82 

CHAPTER  X. 

FRUIT 92 

CHAPTER  XI. 

AN  AGREEABLE  SURPRISE 103 

CHAPTER  XII. 

GOING  INTO  COMPANY Ill 

CHAPTER  Xin. 

A  PAINFUL  BEREAVEMENT 120 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN  IMPORTANT  ERA  IN  LIFE 130 

CHAPTER  XV. 

HAPPY  CONSUMMATIONS 136 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

CONCLUSION 140 


■*. 


THE    MOTHER. 


CHAPTER  I. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Summer  had  passed  away,  and  autumn  had 
verged  on  towards  winter.  Instead  of  a  brief,  sul- 
try twilight,  there  were  long  evenings,  and  pleasant 
gatherings  of  the  family  circle.  Care  looked  more 
cheerful ;  there  was  a  light  on  the  wan  cheek  of 
Sickness ;  and  Labour  sung  merrrily  as  she  turned 
her  wheel. 

His  daily  labours  ended,  James  Hartley  returned 
home  on  such  an  evening,  his  step  light,  his  mind 
clear,  and  his  spirits  buoyant.  Scarcely  a  year  had 
passed  since  the  wreck,  of  his  worldly  prospects  ; 
but  in  that  time,  the  reacting  strength  of  a  manly 
character  had  lifted  his  bowed  head  and  fixed  with 
confidence  his  steady  eye.  But  this  result  would 
have  taken  place  slowly  and  imperfectly  under 
other  circumstances  and  different  influences  from 

7 


8  THE    MOTHER. 

those  with  which  he  was  surrounded.  He  owed 
much  to  the  cheerful  temper  and  hopeful  spirit  of 
his  wite.  So  far  from  murmuring  at  the  change  in 
their  prospects,  or  permitting  her  husband  to  mur- 
mur, every  allusion  to  this  change  was  accompa- 
nied by  Mrs.  Hartley  with  expressions  of  thankful- 
ness that  all  the  real  blessings  the  world  had  to 
give  were  left  them. 

'•  We  have  more  than  enough  for  all  our  wants," 
she  would  say — "  And  besides,  we  have  each  other, 
and  our  dear  little  Marien.  Do  you  think  we  have 
reason  to  complain  ?  No — you  cannot.  Our  cup 
is  not  empty — it  is  full  to  the  brim." 

As  was  ever  the  case,  a  smile  of  welcome  greeted 
Hartley  on  entering  his  pleasant  home.  But  it 
seemed  to  him,  after  the  smile  had  died  away,  that 
there  was  a  thoughtful  expression  upon  Anna's  brow. 
This  grew  distinct  to  his  eye,  as  he  observed  her 
face  more  carefully. 

"  Is  Marien  asleep  r"  he  asked,  soon  after  he 
came  in. 

'•  Yes.  She  was  tired,  and  Avent  to  sleep  early. 
1  tried  to  keep  her  awake  until  you  came  home, 
but  she  was  so  drowsy  and  fretful,  that  I  thought 
it  best  to  put  her  to  bed." 

"Dear  little  creature!" 

"She  is  a  sweet  child." 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

"  A  sweeter  one  cannot  be  found.  As  she  grows 
older,  how  much  delight  we  shall  take  in  seeing 
her  mind  expand,  and  become  filled  with  images 
of  all  that  is  lovely  and  innocent.  As  the  twig  is 
bent,  so  is  the  tree  inclined.  Anna,  all  we  have  to 
do  is  to  bend  this  twig  aright.  Heaven's  rain  and 
sunshine  will  do  the  rest." 

"  To  bend  it  aright  may  not  be  so  easy  a  task  as 
you  suppose,  James," 

"  Perhaps  not.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me,  that  a 
wise  course  of  government,  carefully  pursued,  must 
produce  the  desired  result." 

"  To  determine  wisely  is  not  always  in  our 
power.  Ah,  James  '  It  is  that  thing  of  determining 
wisely^  that  gives  me  the  greatest  concern.  I  be- 
lieve that  I  could  faithfully  carry  out  any  system 
of  government,  were  I  only  well  satisfied  of  its 
being  the  true  one.  But,  so  conscious  am  I,  that, 
if  in  the  system  I  adopt  there  be  a  vital  error,  the 
effect  will  be  lastingly  injurious  to  our  child,  that 
I  hesitate  and  tremble  at  every  step.  The  twig 
that  shoots  forth,  unwarped  by  nature,  pliant  and 
graceful,  may  be  trained  to  grow  in  almost  any 
direction.  But  our  child  is  born  with  an  evil  and 
perverse  will — a  will  thoroughly  depraved." 

"  That  1  do  not  like  to  admit ;  and  yet  I  believe 
it  to  be  too  true." 


10  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Alas  !  it  is  but  too  true,  James.  It  needs  not 
Revelation  to  tell  us  this.  Already  the  moral  de- 
formity we  have  entailed  upon  our  child,  is  show- 
ing itself  every  day. — How  shall  we  correct  it.' — 
How  shall  we  change  it  into  beauty  ?  I  think  of  this 
almost  every  hour,  and  sometimes  it  makes  me  feA 
sad.  It  is  easy  to  say — '  Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the 
tree's  inclined' — but  it  is  not  so  easy  a  thing  to  bend 
the  human  twig  as  you  will.  There  is  great  danger 
of  creaiing  one  deformity  in  the  effort  to  correct 
another;  or  of  checking,  in  its  flow,  the  healthy 
sap  by  undue  pressure.  And  still  further;  our 
own  states  of  m.ind,  from  various  causes,  are  ever 
changing,  and  from  these  changes  result  obscurity, 
or  a  new  direction  of  our  thoughts.  What  seems 
of  the  first  moment  to-day,  is  not  so  considered  to- 
morrow, because  other  ideas  are  more  distinctly 
before  our  minds  and  throw  things  of  equal  im- 
portance into  obscurity.  Our  own  uncorrected 
hereditary  evils  are  also  in  our  way,  and  hinder  us 
from  either  seeing  aright  or  doing  aright." 

'•You  are  disposed  to  look  at  the  gloomy  side 
of  the  picture,  Anna,"  replied  her  husband,  smilincr. 
''  Suppose  you  take  a  more  encouraging  view." 

"  Show  me  the  bright  side,  James.  I  will  look 
at  it  with  pleasure." 

'•  There  is  a  bright  side,  Anna — every  thing  has 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

a  sunny  side ;  but  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  in  my 
power  to  show  you  the  sunny  side  of  this  picture. 
I  will,  however,  present  to  your  mind  a  truth  that 
may  suggest  many  others  of  an  encouraging  nature. 
Into  right  ends  there  flows  a  perception  of  true 
means.     Do  you  not  believe  this  r" 

"  I  have  the  best  of  reasons  for  believing  it  to  be 
true." 

"Can  there  be  a  higher  or  holier  end  than  a 
mother's,  when  she  proposes  to  herself  the  good 
of  her  child  ?" 

"  J  believe  not." 

"  Into  that  end  will  there  most  assuredly  be  an 
influx  of  wisdom  to  discover  the  true  means.  Do 
not  despond,  then.  As  your  day  is,  so  will  your 
strength  be." 

Anna  sighed  heavily,  but  made  no  reply  for  some 
moments.  She  was  too  deeply  conscious  of  her 
ignorance  of  the  true  means,  to  feel  a  profound 
confidence  in  the  practical  bearing  of  the  principles 
that  her  husband  had  declared,  and  which  reason 
told  her  were  true. 

"  It  is  easy  to  theorize,"  she  at  length  said.  "  It 
is  pleasant  to  the  mind  to  dwell  upon  true  princi- 
ples, and  see  how  they  apply  in  real  life.  But,  it 
is  a  different  matter  when  we  come  to  bring  down 
these  theories  ourselves.     There  is  in  us  so  much 


lis  THE    MOTHER. 

that  hinders. — Self  love,  indolence,  pride,  and  a 
thousand  other  things,  come  between  our  good 
purposes  and  their  accomplishment." 

''  True.  But,  on  the  side  of  good  resolutions,  is 
One  who  is  all " 

"Right,  ray  dear  husband! — Right!"  exclaimed 
Anna,  interrupting  him.  "  He  that  is  for  us  is 
more  than  all  who  are  against  us.  If  I  can  only 
fix  my  confidence,  like  an  anchor  to  the  soul,  upon 
Him,  all  the  rough  places  of  peevish  nature  will  be 
made  even^ — light  will  break  in  from  a  dark  sky 
—I  shall  see  clearly  to  walk  in  right  paths." 

"  Ever  let  us  both  strive  to  fix  our  confidence 
upon  God,"  responded  Hartley  in  a  low  but  ear- 
nest voice.  "  If  we  do  so,  we  shall  not  find  our 
duty  so  hard  to  perform  as  at  first  sight  it  may  ap- 
pear to  us.  Angels  love  infants  and  children  most 
tenderly,  and  they  will  be  our  teachers  if  we  keep 
our  minds  elevated  above  all  mere  worldly  and 
selfish  ends,  and  seek  only  the  highest  good  for 
our  offspring." 

"The  highest  good, — Yes,  that  must  be  our  aim. 
But  do  we  agree  as  to  what  is  the  highest  good  ?" 

"  An  important  question,  Anna.  If  we  do  not 
agree,  our  task  will  be  a  difficult  one.  What  do 
you  call  the  highest  good  .^" 

Anna  mused  for  some  time. 


INTRODUCTION-.  13 

"The  highest  good — the  highest  good — "  she  \ 
murmured  abstractedly.  "  Is  it  wealth  ? — Honour  ? 
The  love  and  praise  of  men  ? — The  attainment  of 
all  earthly  blessings  ? — No — no. — Tliese  can  only 
continue  for  a  time.  This  life  is  a  brief  season  at 
best — a  mere  point  in  our  being — a  state  of  prepa- 
ration for  our  real  and  true  existence.  In  seeking 
the  highest  good  of  our  child,  we  must  look  beyond 
the  '  bounds  of  time  and  space.'  "  — i 

"  If  we  do  not,  Anna,  our  seeking  for  the  good 
of  our  child  will  be  in  vain.  But,  after  determin- 
ing what  are  the  best  interests  of  our  child,  the 
next  great  question  is  how  shall  we  secure  them  ? 
Thousands  have  decided  as  we  have,  but  alas  !  how 
few  have  been  able  to  secure  the  right  means.  A 
religious  education  I  know  to  be  the  only  true  edu- 
cation. All  others  must  fail.  But  what  is  a  reli- 
gious education  ?  It  is  in  the  wrong  determination 
of  this  question  that  so  many  fail." 

"  Can  you  determine  it,  James  ?" 

"  Not  so  well  as  you  can.  But  do  you  not  agree 
with  me  in  the  conclusion  I  have  stated  V 

"  Assuredly  I  do.  Religion  is  nothing  more 
than  heavenly  order,  and  involves  in  it  the  true  re- 
lation of  the  creature  and  the  Creator.  It  is  not 
the  abstract,  dark,  austere  and  repulsive  something 
that  so  many  make  it ;  a  thing  of  pharisaical  sane- 


14  THE    MOTHER. 

tity  and  unmeaning  observances.  No — no.  Re- 
lig-ion  clothes  herself  in  garments  of  light,  and 
wears  upon  her  brow  a  sunny  smile.  All  who 
look  upon  her  as  she  really  is,  must  love  her." 

"  Truly  said,  for  she  is  the  very  embodiment  of 
beauty.  But,  how  few  there  are  who  see  her  and 
know  her." 

''Too  few  indeed." 

''Still,  Anna,  we  are  dealing  but  in  generals. 
How  are  we  to  educate  our  child  upon  religious 
principles  ?" 

"  First  of  all,  we  should,  as  1  have  already  endea- 
voured to  do,  impress  upon  her  mind  the  idea  of  a 
God,  and  that  he  loves  her,  watches  over  her,  and 
protects  her  from  harm.  This  is  easily  done.  No 
idea  is  so  readily  conveyed  to  a  child's  mind  as 
that  of  the  existence  of  God  as  a  good  Being. — 
When  I  talk  to  Marien,  young  as  she  is,  about 
God  and  the  angels  who  live  in  Heaven,  she  will 
look  me  steadily  in  the  eyes,  and  listen  with  the 
most  fixed  attention.  She  cannot  yet  speak  her 
thoughts,  but  1  know  that  she  more  than  half  Com- 
prehends me,  and  that  in  the  tender  and  most  im- 
pressible substances  of  her  mind,  1  am  fixing  ideas 
that  can  never  be  eradicated.  As  she  grows  older, 
and  her  mind  expands,  I  shall  not  only  teach  her 
to  regard  the  good  of  others,  but  instruct  her  in 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

the  right  means  of  promoting  it.  The  whole  Law 
and  the  Prophets  hang  upon  the  precept:  'Thou 
shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
thy  neighbour  as  thyself.'  Here  is  the  starling 
point  in  all  religion.  With  this  fundamental  doc- 
trine, must  all  olher  doctrines  square.  To  love 
God,  is  to  live  according  to  his  commandments; 
and  to  love  our  neighbour  is  to  seek  his  good — his 
highest  good.  If  we  live  only  for  ourselves,  and 
regard  only  ourselves,  we  live  a  false  and  irreligious 
life,  and  cannot  be  happy.  No  matter  what  doc- 
trines we  profess — no  matter  by  what  name  we  call 
ourselves — if  we  do  not  seek  the  good  of  others  we 
are  irreligious." 

"With  what  truth  may  it  be  said — 'There  is 
none  good — no,  not  one,' "  remarked  Hartley,  as  his 
wife  ceased  speaking.  "  How  easy  it  is  to  see  the 
truth  of  a  precept,  and  declare  it ;  but  how  hard  a 
thing  is  it  to  live  according  to  the  tenor  of  that 
precept." 

"  Yes — and  how  easy  it  is  to  talk  about  the 
education  of  our  child,  but  how  almost  impossible 
will  it  be  for  us  to  accomplish  the  important  task," 
replied  Anna.  "  Already  do  J  find  myself  at  a  loss 
how  to  meet  and  correct  certain  evil  tendencies 
thus  early  apparent  in  our  dear  little  one.  These 
will  grow  stronger  as  she  grows  older.     I  cannot 


16  THE    MOTHER. 

remove  them — all  1  can  do  will  be  to  prevent  their 
attaining  suificient  strength  to  rule  in  her  minil,  at 
the  same  time  that  I  seek  to  sow  the  seeds  of  op- 
posite good  principles,  that  when  she  attains  the 
age  of  rational  accountability,  and  the  great  strug- 
gle commences,  that  takes  place  with  every  one, 
she  may  have  the  means  of  a  sure  conquest.  If 
we  could  remove  the  evil  tendencies  with  which 
our  children  are  born,  our  duties  would  be  lighter, 
for  we  could  then  work  with  more  confidence. 
But  this  we  cannot  do.  Each  one  has  to  do  it  for 
himself,  when  he  comes  to  mature  age — or  rather, 
he  has  then  to  fight  against  the  evils  in  himself, 
and  when  from  right  motives  he  does  this,  the 
Lord  will  remove  them.  All  we  can  do  for  our 
child,  is  to  keep,  as  far  as  it  is  in  our  power,  her 
evils  quiescent,  and  fill  her  mind  with  active  prin- 
ciples of  goodness.  These  will  be  weapons  and 
proof  armour  in  the  strife  that  must  take  place, 
sooner  or  later.  Fighting  with  these,  she  must 
come  off  conqueror." 


CHAPTER  II. 

B  E  GINNIN  G     RIGHT. 

This  was  the  first  serious  conversation  that  had 
taken  place  between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  on  the 
subject  of  the  education  of  their  child.  As  their 
thoughts  became  more  and  more  steadily  directed  to 
the  subject,  they  saw  their  duty  clearer  and  clearer. 
At  least,  such  was  the  case  with  Mrs.  Hartley,  for 
her's  was  the  task  of  making  the  first  impression 
upon  her  child's  mind — the  first  and  most  lasting 
impression.  Upon  the  character  of  the  mother  de 
pends,  almost  entirely,  the  future  character  and' 
position  of  the  child.  No  matter  how  wise  and 
good  the  father  may  be,  his  influence  will  do  but 
little  if  opposed  to  that  of  an  injudicious  mother. 
Take  ten  instances  where  men  have  risen  from 
humble  stations  into  eminence,  and  nine  of  these 
at  least  will  be  found  the  result  of  a  mother's  in- 
fluence. Her  love  is  a  different  one;  it  is  more 
concentrated— and  the  more  we  love  an  object,  the 
more  accurate  becomes  our  perception  of  tlie  means 
of  benefitting  that  object.  The  father  is,  usually, 
2*  17 


I 


18  THE    MOTHER. 

all  absorbed  in  the  pursuit  of  a  business  or  profes- 
sio^njby  wRich  to  secure  the  temporal  good  of  his 
family,  and  has  little  time,  and  too  often  less  incli- 
nation to  devote  himself  to  his  children.  When 
he  retires  into  his  family,  his  mind  seeks  rest  from 
the  over  excitements  of  the  day,  and  he  is  unpre- 
pared to  give  to  his  children  judicious  instruction, 
or  to  administer  wise  correction.  He  cannot  adopt 
a  system,  and  regularly  carry  it  out,  because  he  is 
with  them  only  for  a  short  time  each  day,  and  can- 
not know  their  characters  thoroughly,  nor  the 
means  that  best  re-act  upon  and  keep  their  evils 
quiescent.  Upon  the  mother  devolves,  therefore, 
of  necessity,  the  high  and  important  duty  of  mould- 
ing the  characters  of  her  children — of  impressing 
them  for  good  or  evil — of  giving  them  true  strength 
for  their  trials  in  after  life. 

Sensibly  did  Mrs.  Hartley  feel  this.  The  path 
of  duty  lay  clearly  defined  before  her,  and  she 
shrunk  not  from  walking  therein.  Love  for  her 
child,  and  a  high  religious  principle,  were  her 
prompters — that  religious  principle  was  a  reverence 
for  God,  and  a  purified  love  of  the  neighbor.  Tt 
was  a  religion  that  showed  itself  less  in  external 
acts  of  piety  (though  these  were  never  omitted) 
than  in  an  orderly  and  blameless  life — an  upright 
walk  and  a  chaste  conversation.     Her  charity  con- 


BEGINNING    RIGHT.  19 

sisted  in  the  faithful  performance  of  all  known  du- 
ties— the  filling  up  of  her  measure  of  usefulness  iii 
the  sphere  where  Providence  had  placed  her. 

Her  first  efforts  with  her  child,  as  reason  began  to 
dawn,  were  the  best  a  mother  can  use.  She  sought  to 
impress  upon  the  mind  of  her  little  Marien  one  idea. 
Among  the  first  words  she  taught  her  to  say,  were, 
"  Good  Man  in  Heaven."  And  she  always  uttered 
these  words  with  a  quiet,  thoughtful  face,  and  point- 
ed upwards.  Soon,  the  answer  to  "  Who  loves  little 
Marien  ?"  would  be  "  Papa."  "  Who  else  ?"  "  Mam- 
ma."   "  Who  else  ?"   "  Good  Man  in  Heaven." 

At  every  step  she  endeavored  to  fix  more  deep- 
ly this  impression.  The  lisped  prayer  on  retiring 
to  bed  was  never  omitted. 

The  next  eflbrt  she  made  was  to  counteract  the 
selfish  tendency  of  the  child.  She  began  with 
teaching  her  that  she  must  love  God — the  second 
step  was  to  cause  her  to  regard  the  good  of  others- 

If  her  husband,  from  the  very  nature  of  his  occu- 
pation, could  not  aid  her  much  in  the  practical  ap- 
plication of  right  means,  he  was  ever  ready  to  con- 
fer with  her,  and  to  aid  her  in  discovering  these 
means.  They  thought  much,  and  conversed  much 
together  upon  the  subject. 

^''  The  hardest  thing  I  have  to  do,  is  to  cause 
Marien  to  obey  me,"  said  xMrs.  Hartley,  as  they  sat 


20  THE    MOTHER. 

conversing  about  their  child,  one  evening  after  she 
had  been  put  to  bed. 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  replied  her  husband.  "  And 
yet  obedience  is,  of  all  things,  most  necessary.  In 
the  young  mind  must  be  formed  vessels  into  which 
principles  of  action  that  are  to  govern  in  manhood, 
can  flow.  Obedience  to  parents  forms  in  tlie  mind 
vessels  that  become  recipients  of  obedience  to  civil 
laws,  without  which  all  social  order  would  be  de- 
stroyed ; — and,  by  an  easy  process,  obedience  to  law 
changes  as  the  mind  rises  into  higher  and  better 
states,  into  obedience  to  divine  laws.  Obedience  to 
these  laws  involves  all  the  rest.  A  good  Christian  is 
of  necessity  a  good  citizen.  He  does  not  obey  the 
laws  as  penal  enactments,  but  because  they  are 
founded  upon  a  just  regard  to  the  good  of  the 
whole.  From  this  view  of  the  subject  may  be  seen 
the  importance  of  securing  the  implicit  obedience  of 
our  children.  We  cannot  hope  to  make  this  so  per- 
fect that  they  will  always  regard  our  injunctions 
"when  absent ;  but  the  consciousness  that  every  act 
of  disobedience,  if  known,  will  meet  with  some  cor- 
rection, cannot  fail  to  have  a  restraining  effect,  and 
will  cause  civil  laws  to  be  obeyed  until  the  mind 
is  so  far  elevated  as  to  observe  them  from  a  regard 
to  their  sacredness  as  means  of  securing  the  good 
of  the  whole." 


BEGINNING    RIGHT.  21 

"  This  view  of  the  subject,"  remarked  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley, "  causes  me  to  feel,  more  than  1  have  yet  felt, 
the  necessity  of  obedience  in  children.  I  did  not 
see  its  important  bearing  upon  social  order  before, 
nor  how  it  was  the  only  means  of  leading  our  chil- 
dren to  what  is  so  much  desired,  obedience  to  di- 
vine laws,  when  they  become  responsible  beings." 

The  three  great  things  to  attain,  as  seeming  of 
most  importance  to  Mrs.  Hartley,  in  the  education 
of'  her  child,  were  to  impress  fervently  and  truly 
upon  her  mind  a  just  idea  of  God ;  to  give  her  an 
unselfish  regard  for  her  neighbor,  and  to  insure 
perfect  obedience.  To  do  all  this  was  a  great 
work,  and  hard,  almost  impossible  she  often  felt, 
to  accomplish.  But  she  strove  unweariedly  after 
the  attainment  of  her  end, — too  unweariedly,  I  had 
almost  said — for  she  interfered  with  the  freedom 
of  her  child — checked  too  often  its  innocent  out- 
bursts of  exuberant  feeling — saw  too  much,  and  let 
be  seen  too  fully  by  her  child  the  bonds  with 
which  she  sought  to  hold  her.  The  effect  was, 
consequently,  bad,  for  the  rebound  of  her  young 
spirits,  when  away  from  her  mother,  were  too 
strong.  Instead  of  being  happiest  with  her  mother, 
she  was  happiest  when  she  could  escape  from  her 
presence. 

Mrs.  Hartley  saw  all  this,  and  it  grieved  her 


22  THE    MOTHER. 

deeply.  But  the  cause  she  did  not  clearly  perceive. 
Before,  however,  the  evils  of  an  over-rigid  system 
had  progressed  too  far,  the  birth  of  a  second  child 
divided  her  care  and  affection,  and  gave  to  Marien  a 
real  something  that  she  could  love  undersiandingly. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MEANS     AND     ENDS. 


As  month  after  month  passed  on,  and  Clarence, 
th^  latest  born  of  Mrs.  Hartley,  began  to  exhibit  some 
signs  of  his  real  disposition,  the  parents  perceived 
that  it  was  very  diflerent  from  Marien's.  The  first 
born  was  quiet,  and  easily  controlled  ;  but  the  boy 
was  full  of  life,  and  showed  very  early  a  resolute 
■will,  and  passionate  temper.  Before  he  had  com- 
pleted a  year,  he  had  caused  his  mother  many  an 
anxious  hour,  and  drawn  from  her  eyes  many  a 
tear.  From  his  sister  he  was  disposed  to  take 
every  thing,  and  if  his  exacting  spirit  were  not  im- 
mediately gratified  in  its  desires,  he  would  scream 
violently,  and  sometimes  throw  himself  passionate- 
ly upon  the  floor.  In  the  first  year  of  her  bro- 
ther's life,  Marien    had  changed   a   good   deal. — 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  23 

Young-  as  she  was,  her  mother  endeavored  to  in- 
terest her  in  his  favor — to  lend  him  her  play 
things  when  awake,  and  to  rock  his  cradle  when 
he  was  asleep,  and  do  many  little  things  for  him 
within  her  ability  to  accomplish.  To  the  exacting, 
imperious  temper  of  the  child,  Marien  was  much 
inclined  to  yield.  To  have  permitted  her  to  do  so, 
would  have  been  the  easiest  course  for  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley to  pursue.  But  this  she  saw  would  be  to  in- 
jure both  the  children.  Were  Marien  to  give  up 
every  thing  to  Clarence,  it  would  be  impossible  for 
the  mother  to  impress  upon  his  mind  the  idea  that 
others  had  rights  as  well  as  himself — rights  that  he 
must  not  violate.  ]t  took  some  weeks  after  Mrs. 
Hartley  began  to  teach  her  child  this  important 
lesson  before  she  seemed  to  make  any  impression. 
After  that,  the  simple  declaration — "  Tiiis  belongs 
to  Marien,"  caused  Clarence  to  yield  at  once. 
The  achievement  of  so  much  gave  the  mother  great 
encouragement.  It  v/as  fruit  to  her  labour,  and 
the  in-gathering  even  of  so  small  a  harvest  was 
delightful. 

As  the  boy  added  month  after  month  and  year 
after  year  to  his  age,  his  strengthening  peculiarities 
of  disposition  became  sources  of  constant  annoy- 
ance to  his  mother.  What  could  be  tolerated  in 
the  child  of  two  and  three  years,  was  not  to  be 


24  THE    MOTHER. 

endured  with  patience  in  the  boy  of  five  and  six. 
Want  of  order  and  cleanliness  were  among  the 
faults  that  worried  her  almost  as  much  as  his 
stormy  temper,  selfishness,  and  a  disposition  to 
domineer  over  his  sister,  who  remained  still  too 
much  inclined  to  yield  rather  than  contend  with 
him.  Spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  control  herself, 
these  things  so  disturbed  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Hartley, 
that  she  would  at  times  speak  fretfully,  and  even 
passionately  to  the  boy.  Whenever  this  was  the 
case,  she  could  see  that  the  effect  was  had.  Siie 
reached  nothing  in  her  child — took  hold  of  no- 
thing in  his  mind  by  which  she  could  turn  him  to 
good.  It  was  a  mere  external  concussion,  that 
moved  him  just  so  far,  and  that  against  his  will. 

Unhappy,  for  hours  and  days,  would  the  mother 
be  whenever  she  thus  lost  her  self-command  ;  and 
long  and  deep  would  be  her  self-communings,  and 
earnest  her  resolutions  to  conquer  the  evils  in  her- 
self tliat  were  re-acting  so  injuriously  upon  her 
child. 

"I  am  not  fit  to  be  a  mother,"  she  would  some- 
times say  to  her  husband  during  these  seasons  of 
depression.  "  I  lack  patience  and  forbearance,  and 
it  seems,  every  other  virtue  required  for  one  in  my 
position.  That  boy,  Clarence,  tries  me,  at  times, 
beyond  endurance.     And  yet,  when  my  mind  is 


MEANS     AND    ENDS.  25 

calm  and  my  perceptions  clear,  I  can  see  that  he 
has  very  many  good  qualities,  and  that  these  really 
overbalance  the  evil.  His  intellect  is  remarkably 
quick,  and  there  is  a  manliness  about  him  but  rarely 
seen  in  children  of  his  age." 

"  Persevere,  Anna — persevere,"  were  usually  her 
husband's  encouraging  words.  "You  are  doing 
well.  If  any  one  can  mould  aright  the  disposition 
of  that  wayward  child,  it  is  you.  I  only  wish  that 
1  had  half  your  patience  and  forbearance." 

Time  passed  steadily  on.  Another  and  another 
babe  saw  the  light,  until  five  bright-eyed  children 
filled  their  home  with  music  and  sunshine.  When 
her  care  was  lavished  upon  a  single  child,  the  mo- 
ther had  both  mind  and  heart  full.  Now  her  duties 
were  increased  five  fold,  but  she  did  not  feel  them 
to  be  greater  than  at  first.  It  seemed  to  her,  when 
she  had  but  one  babe,  that  there  was  not  room  in 
her  heart  for  another — but  now  she  found  that 
there  was  room  for  all. — Each  had  its  appropriate 
place. 

Alike  in  some  general  features,  these  five  chil- 
dren were,  in  particulars,  as  unlike  as  possible. 
Marien,  the  eldest,  was  a  sweet-tempered  girl,  ten 
years  of  age.  Clarence  had  improved  much  under 
the  careful  training  of  his  mother,  though  he  was 
still  rude,  self-willed,  and  too  little  inclined  to  re- 
3 


4 


26  THE    MOTHER. 

gard  properly  the  rights  and  comforts  of  his  bro- 
ther  and  sisters.  Henry,  next  younger  than  Cla- 
rence, was  altogether  opposite  in  character.  1'imid, 
bashful  and  retiring,  he  had  little  confidence  in 
himself,  and  was  too  much  inclined  to  lean  upon 
others.  Fanny,  a  laughing  little  fairy  thing,  ma- 
king the  house  musical  with  her  happy  voice,  and 
Lillian,  the  babe,  filled  up  the  number  of  Mrs. 
Hartley's  household  treasures. 

Nearly  twelve  years  had  passed  since  their  mar- 
riage, and  yet  neither  James  Hartley  nor  his  wife 
were  very  strongly  marked  by  time.  He  had  a 
more  thoughtful, and  shea  more  earnest  expression 
of  countenance.  Their  external  condition  had  im- 
proved. He  had  again  entered  into  business,  though 
not  with  the  flattering  promises  that  before  encour- 
aged him  to  hope  for  a  speedily  attained  fortune ; 
but  he  was  in  a  surer  way  to  competency  at  least. 

During  this  time,  both  the  father  and  mother  of 
Mrs.  Hartley  died,  and  a  maiden  aunt,  the  sister  of 
Anna's  mother,  had  become  a  member  of  their 
household.  The  puritanical  prejudices,  narrow 
views,  and  constant  interference  of  this  woman 
with  Anna's  management  of  her  children,  were  a 
source  of  great  trial.  Aunt  Mary  had  no  patience 
with  the  wayward  Clarence,  while  she  petted 
and  indulged  Henry  to  a  degree  that  was  really  ior 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  27 

jurious  to  a  child  of  his  particular  disposition. 
Ileaionstraiice  was  of  no  avail ;  for  Aunt  Mary 
imagined  that  her  age  and  relationship  entitled  her 
to  all  the  control  in  the  family  she  chose  to  as- 
sume. She  could  not  understand  that  Anna,  ''  the 
child,"  as  she  usually  spoke  of  her,  had  rights  and 
responsibilities  as  a  parent,  with  which  she  ought 
not  to  interfere.  All  this  was  beyond  her  compre- 
hension. 

Aunt  Mary  was  a  strict  church-going  member. 
A  regular  Simday  religionist.  She  seemed  to  re- 
gard every  thing  outside  of  a  church  as  profane. 
There  was  sin  in  a  pink  ribbon,  and  carnal-mind- 
edness  in  a  blue  bonnet.  All  amusements  were 
considered  by  her  as  offences  against  God.  To 
attend  a  ball,  or  dance,  was  to  insure  the  soul's 
perdition.  Aunt  Mary  was  not  one  of  those  who, 
while  they  hold  peculiar  and  strict  notions,  have 
the  good  sense  to  keep  quiet  about  them  where 
they  know  their  declaration  not  to  be  agreeable. 
She  deemed  it  her  duty  to  preach  from  the  house 
top,  so  to  speak,  on  all  occasions  ;  and  to  declare 
to  the  children  that  many  of  the  very  things  taught 
them  by  their  parents  were  wrong.  When  Marien 
and  Clarence  were  first  sent  to  dancing  school, 
Aunt  Mary  preached  upon  the  subject,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  for  nearly  a  month. 


28  THE    MOTHER. 

"Toil  will  ruin  your  children,  Anna,"  she  would 
say.  "Isn't  it  a  shame  to  think  that  a  mother  will 
have  no  more  regard  for  her  little  ones." 

"  How  will  dancing  ruin  them,  Aunt  Mary  ?" 
Mrs.  Hartley  would  sometimes  ask  in  a  quiet  tone. 
"  I  cannot,  for  my  life,  see  any  evil  in  motions  of 
the  body  made  to  accord  with  good  music." 

"Dancing  is  one  of  Satan's  most  cunning  de- 
vices to  lure  the  soul  to  ruin." 

"How  is  it.  Aunt  Mary?  I  cannot  understand 
in  what  the  evil  lies.  Is  there  any  thing  in  music 
opposed  to  the  Ten  Commandments  ?  Do  the 
Ten  Commandments  forbid  dancing?" 

"  You  reason  like  a  little  simpleton,  as  you  are," 
returned  Aunt  Mary,  peevishly.  "  The  Bible  for- 
bids dancing." 

"  I  never  saw  it,  and  I  believe  I  have  read  that 
good  book  very  carefully.  It  does  say,  that  there 
is  a  time  to  dance." 

"  It  is  wicked  to  quote  Scripture,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  perverting  its  meaning,"  replied  Aunt  Mary, 
warmly. 

"  I  know  that.  But  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  have 
done  so.  The  Bible  certainly  says  that  there  is  a 
time  to  dance." 

"  Not  in  the  sense  that  you  pretend  to  under- 
stand it." 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  29 

"  Why  not  ?" 

''Because  it  is  wicked  to  dance,  and  the  Bible 
never  teaches  us  to  do  what  is  wicked." 

"Oh!  oh!"  returned  Anna,  laughing — "You 
are  like  a  great  many  other  good  people,  Aunt 
Mary.  You  first  call  a  thing  good  or  evil  to  suit 
some  notion  of  your  own,  and  then  make  the  Bible 
prove  it  whether  it  will  or  no.  A  convenient 
method,  I  own,  but  it  doesn't  suit  my  common 
sense  notions.  But  to  be  serious  with  you,  aunt ; 
— we  send  our  children  to  dancing  school  from 
conscientious  motives." 

"Conscientious  motives!  Humph!" 

"It  is  true.  We  are  satisfied  that  all  external 
graces  and  accomplishments  are  so  many  aids  to 
moral  culture,  if  selfish  and  worldly-minded  peo- 
ple pervert  them  to  selfish  and  worldly  purposes, 
that  is  an  evil  for  which  they  alone  are  responsible. 
Shall  I,  because  a  glutton  makes  himself  sick  on 
dainty  food,  refuse  to  eat  any  thing  but  the  coarsest 
bread  ?  Or,  because  my  next  door  neighbor  fur- 
nishes her  house  richly  that  her  taste  may  be  ad- 
mired, refuse  to  have  a  carpet  upon  my  floor,  or  a 
mirror  in  my  parlor  ^  It  is  the  end  for  which  a 
vhing  is  done  that  makes  it  evil  or  good,  aunt.  All 
good  gifts  are  from  Heaven.  There  are  no  positive 
evils, — all  that  exist  are  perversions  of  good." 


30  THE    MOTHER. 

••'Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  end  sanctifies  the 
means  ?"  asked  Aunt  Mary,  quite  fiercely. 

"  I  do,  if  the  means  are  good  ?" 

"What  am  I  to  understand  by  that?  You  seem 
to  be  talking  riddles." 

"  Good  means  never  violate  the  laws  of  either 
God  or  man.  You  may  always  be  sure  that  the 
end  is  bad,  if  the  means  used  in  its  attainment  are 
so.  But  to  come  back  to  the  point  from  which  we 
started.  We  can  see  no  harm  in  music  and  dan- 
cing, abstractly  considered." 

"  But  their  effects,  Anna.  Cannot  you  see  their 
injurious  effects  upon  young  people." 

"  What  are  they  ?" 

"  They  make  them  vain  and  frivolous,  and  wean 
their  minds  from  better  things." 

"  I  always  find  that  my  children  say  their 
prayers  as  earnestly  in  the  evening  of  the  day  they 
have  taken  their  dancing  lesson,  as  on  any  other. 
And,  sometimes,  I  think  with  a  more  tender  and 
grateful  spirit." 

"  I  shudder  to  hear  you  talk  so,  Anna.  You  are 
trifling  with  holy  things.  Dancing  and  praying — • 
Ugh  !     It  makes  my  very  blood  run  cold !" 

"  I  don't  see.  Aunt  Mary,  that  any  good  can 
grow  out  of  tliese  discussions,"  remarked  Anna, 
gravely.      ''  The  responsibility  of  our  children's 


MEANS    AND    ENDS.  3l 

education  rests  with  James  and  myself.  Our  guide 
is  the  reason  that  God  has  given  us,  illustrated  by 
his  Revelation.  These  teach  us  that  it  is  right  to 
bring  out  into  ultimate  forms  all  that  is  innocent  in 
our  children.  Their  buoyant  spirits  are  ever  caus- 
ing them  to  throw  their  bodies  about  in  every  ima- 
ginable attitude.  Is  it  not  much  better  to  teach  a 
boy  like  Clarence  to  dance  gracefully  to  good  mu- 
sic, than  to  let  his  excessive  flow  of  animal  spirits 
lead  him  to  turn  summersets,  stand  on  his  head,  or 
contort  his  body  until  it  is  deformed  ? — and  to  let 
the  peevishness  of  an  unhappy  temper  subside  in  a 
similar  amusement?  We,  after  much  careful  re- 
flection, have  determined  that  is  best." 

"  But  all  amusements  are  sinful,  Anna.  How 
can  you  reconcile  that  with  your  duty  to  your 
children." 

"  As  I  have  often  said  before,"  replied  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley, "  I  do  not  believe  that  all  amusements  are 
sinful.  My  opinion  is  that  one  person  may  com- 
mit more  sin  in  going  to  church,  than  another  in 
going  to  a  ball  room." 

"  Anna !" 

''  It  is  the  motive  from  which  a  thing  is  done 
that  makes  it  good  or  bad,"  resumed  the  niece. 
"  If  [  go  to  a  ball  with  a  right  motive,  and  that  i  can 
do,  my  act  is  much  better  than  the  act  of  one  who 


32  THE    MOTHER. 

goes  to  church  to  be  seen  and  admired,  or,  as  too 
many  go,  with  a  pharisaical  spirit." 

''•  It's  no  use  to  talk  to  you  !"  Aunt  Mary  said, 
pettishly.  ''You  and  James  are  as  set  in  your 
ways  as  you  can  be.  I  pity  your  children — that's 
what  I  do.  If  ever  they  come  lo  any  thing,  it  will 
be  more  from  good  luck  than  any  thing  else.  As 
to  their  ever  caring  about  religion,  I  give  up  all 
hopes.  Mark  my  words,  Anna,  the  day  will  come 
when  you  will  repent  of  this  folly.  Young  folks 
think  old  folks  fools ;  but  old  folks  know  young 
folks  to  be  fools.  Remember  that." 
t  Contentions  like  these  did  not  change  in  the 
slightest  degree  the  system  which  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hartley  had  adopted.  They  believed  that  their 
children  would  be  more  useful  as  members  of  com- 
mon society  after  they  arrived  at  mature  age,  if  en- 
dowed with  every  accomplishment  of  mind  and 
manners,  than  if  rude  and  uncultivated,  except  ia 
the  higher  and  sterner  qualities  of  the  intellect. 
As  to  the  absurd  notion  that  such  accomplishments 
were  inconsistent  with  true  religion,  they  were  well 
assured  that,  without  such  accomplishments,  reli- 
gion lost  more  than  half  of  its  means  of  acting  for 
good  in  common  society. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE     SECRET    OF     GOVERNING    CHILDREN. 

Very  soon  after  Mrs.  Hartley  assumed  the  re- 
sponsible position  of  a  mother,  she  became  sensible 
that  she  had  really  more  to  do  in  the  correction  of 
what  was  wrong  in  herself,  than  in  her  children. 
To  remain  undisturbed  at  their  disobedience,  and 
unimpassioned  when  duty  called  her  to  administer 
correction,  was  next,  it  seemed  to  her,  to  impossi- 
ble. A  calm  admonition  she  always  saw  did  more 
good  than  an  energetic  one — and  grief  at  her  child's 
disobedience  was  ever  more  effective  than  anger. 
But  anger  was  too  ready  to  lift  its  distorted  visage, 
and  she  mourned  over  this  tendency  with  a  real 
sorrow,  because  she  saw  that  it  exerted  an  unhappy 
influence,  especially  upon  the  self-willed,  excitable 
Clarence. 

"  I  believe  I  have  discovered  a  secret,"  she  re- 
marked to  her  husband,  while  they  sat  conversing 
one  evening,  about  the  time  that  Clarence  attained 
his  third  year. 

"  What  is  that,  dear.^"  he  asked. 

33 


34  THE    MOTHER. 

"The  secret  of  governing  my  children  easily." 

"  A  great  secret  that.  But  are  you  sure  you  are 
right  ?" 

"  I  think  I  am.     It  is  to  govern  myself." 

Mr.  Hartley  smiled. 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  only  true  way,"  returned  his 
wife. 

"  And  so  do  I,  Anna.  But  the  government  of 
ourselves  is  not  so  easy  a  matter." 

'"  I  am  well  aware  of  that.  No  one,  it  seems  to 
n^e,  can  try  harder  than  I  do  to  control  my  feelings 
when  Clarence  does  wrong.  But  I  cannot  do  it 
once  in  ten  times  that  I  make  the  effort.  When  1 
do  succeed,  the  task  of  correction  is  easy  and  ef- 
fectual. A  word,  mildly  but  firmly  uttered,  or  a 
look,  is  all  that  is  required.  The  child  seems  at 
once  subdued.  I  am  sometimes  astonished  at  so 
marked  a  result  from  what  seems  so  small  a 
cause." 

"  That  you  succeed  once  even  in  ten  efforts,  is 
certainly  encouraging." 

"  It  inspires  me  with  the  hope  that  I  shall  yet 
conquer  myself,  through  the  power  sent  me  from 
above.  The  earnest  love  I  feel  for  my  children, 
shall  give  me  resolution  to  persevere." 

The  manner  and  words  of  Mrs.  Hartley  touched 
her  husband. 


GOVERNING    CHILDREN.  35 

"  For  their  sakes,  persevere,  dear  Anna !"  he 
said  with  emotion. 

"  I  will,"  was  her  tearful  ans\ver — the  drops  of 
pure  feeling  were  dimming  her  eyes. 

"There  is  still  another  reason  why  both  yoia 
and  I  should  resist  every  evil  tendency  of  our  na- 
tures," said  Mr.  Hartley.  "  We  are  well  convinced, 
that  our  children  can  have  no  moral  perversions  that 
are  not  inherited  from  their  parents," 

"  It  is,  alas  !  but  too  true. — How  sad  the  reflec- 
tion that  we  entail  a  curse  upon  our  offspring." 

"  Sad  indeed.     But  what  is  our  duty  ?" 

"A  very  plain  one,"  returned  J\lrs,  Hartley. 
"To  resist  evil  in  ourselves,  and  put  it  away,  that 
our  future  offspring,  should  God  add  to  the  number 
of  our  jewels,  may  inherit  from  us  tendencies  to 
good  instead  of  tendencies  to  evil.  This  is  the  way 
in  which  we  can  care  best  for  our  children.  The 
forms  of  all  uncorrected  evils  in  ourselves  must,  by 
the  immutable  law  that  every  thing  produced  bears 
the  likeness  and  has  the  qualities  of  the  producing 
cause,  be  in  our  children  ;  and  there  is  enough  and 
more  than  enough  surrounding  every  one  to  excite 
his  latent  evils.  Every  wrong  temper,  every  selfish 
feeling,  that  we  conquer  in  ourselves,  is  just  so 
much  gain  of  good  for  our  children." 

"  Yes,  to  subdue  our  own  evils  is  the  only  sure 


36  THE    MOTHER. 

way  to  correct  them  in  our  children.  We  weaken 
them  in  their  transmission,  and  are  in  better  stales 
to  correct  them  when  they  begin  to  appear." 

How  very  few  there  are  who  think  on  this  sub- 
ject as  did  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley.  Parents  will 
indulge  in  all  the  evil  tempers  and  dispositions  of 
an  unregenerate  nature — will  cherish  envy  and 
pride,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  manner  of  selfishness, 
and  yet  wonder  at  their  existence  in  their  children 
— will  indulge  these  things  in  secret,  and  yet  be 
angry  at  their  children,  who  have  no  motive  for 
curbing  their  passions  or  hiding  what  they  think 
or  feel.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  so  few 
are  successful  in  the  government  of  their  children, 
when  it  is  seen  that  they  have  not  learned  to  go- 
vern themselves. 

From  this  time  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  felt  a 
new  motive  for  striving  after  the  correction  in  them- 
selves of  all  perverted  moral  forms.  The  result 
was  good.  Mrs.  Hartley  found  herself  growing 
more  patient  and  forbearing.  She  was  able  to 
stand,  as  it  were,  above  her  children,  so  as  not  to 
be  affected  by  their  wrong  tempers  and  dispositions 
with  any  thing  but  an  earnest  and  unimpassioned 
desire  to  correct  them.  Her  love  was  guided  by 
right  reason,  instead  of  being  obscured  by  anger, 
&d  had  often  been  the  case. 


A    BIOTHER's    IIVFLUEXCE.  37' 

Having  fairly  set  forth  the  principles  of  action 
which  governed  Mrs.  Hartley  in  the  management 
and  education  of  her  children,  let  us  introduce  her 
more  fully  to  the  reader,  that  she  may  be  seen  in 
the  active  effort  to  perform  well  a  mother's  part. 
The  period  already  named,  twelve  years  from  the 
time  of  her  marriage,  will  be  the  best  for  our 
purpose. 


CHAPTER  V. 
A    mother's    influence. 

"There  come  the  children  from  school,"  said 
Aunt  Mary,  looking  from  the  window.  "Just  see 
that  Clarence  !  He'll  have  Henry  in  the  gutter. 
I  never  saw  just  such  another  boy.  Why  can't 
he  come  quietly  along  like  other  children.  There  ! 
— now  he  must  stop  to  throw  stones  at  the  pigs. 
That  boy  '11  give  you  the  heart  ache  yet,  Anna." 

Mrs.  Hartley  made  no  reply,  but  laid  aside  her 
work  quietly  and  left  the  room,  to  see  that  their 
dinner  was  ready.  In  a  few  minutes  the  street  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  the  children  came  bound- 
ing in,  full  of  life,  and  noisy  as  they  could  be. 


38  THS    MOTHER. 

"  Where  is  your  coat,  Clarence  r"  she  asked,  in 
a  pleasant  tone,  looking  her  oldest  boy  in  the  face. 

'•  Oh,  I  forgot !"  he  replied  cheerfully,  and  turn- 
ing quickly,  he  ran  down  stairs,  and  lifting  his 
coat  from  where,  in  his  thoughtlessness,  he  had 
thrown  it  upon  the  floor,  hung  it  up  in  its  proper 
place,  and  then  sprung  up  the  stairs. 

'•  Isn't  dinner  ready  yet  .^"  he  said,  with  fretful 
impatience,  his  whole  manner  changing  suddenly. 
"  J'm  hungry." 

"  It  will  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes,  Clarence." 

"I  want  it  now.     I'm  hungry." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Hartley,  in  a  voice  that  showed  no  disturbance  of 
mind,  '*  who  wanted  the  sun  to  rise  an  hour  before 
its  time  .'" 

"No,  mother.     Tell  me  about  it,  won't  you  ?" 

All  impatience  had  vanished  from  the  boy's  face. 

"  There  was  a  man  who  had  to  go  upon  a  jour- 
ney. The  stage  coach  was  to  call  for  him  at  sun- 
rise. More  than  an  hour  before  it  was  time  for 
the  sun  to  be  up,  the  man  was  all  ready  to  go,  and 
for  the  whole  of  that  hour  he  walked  the  floor  im- 
patiently, grumbling  at  the  sun  because  he  di-d  not 
rise.  '  Vm  all  ready,  and  I  want  to  be  going,'  he 
said.  '  It's  time  the  sun  was  up,  long  ago.'  Don't 
you  think  he  was  a  very  foolish  man  .^" 


A    mother's    IPfFLUEXCE.  39 

Clarence  laughed,  and  said  he  thought  the  man 
was  very  foolish  indeed. 

"Do  you  think  he  was  more  foolish  than  you 
were  just  now  for  grumbling  because  dinner  wasn't 
ready  ?" 

Clarence  laughed  again,  and  said  he  did  not 
know.  Just  then  Hannah,  the  cook,  brought  in 
the  waiter  with  the  children's  dinner  upon  it.— 
Clarence  sprang  for  a  chair,  and  drew  it  hastily  and 
noisily  to  the  table. 

""  Try  and  see  if  you  can't  do  that  more  orderly, 
my  dear,"  his  mother  said,  in  a  quiet  voice,  look- 
ing at  him  as  she  spoke,  with  a  steady  eye. 

The  boy  removed  his  chair,  and  then  replaced  it 
gently. 

"  That  is  much  better,  my  son." 

And  thus  she  corrected  his  disorderly  habits, 
quieted  his  impatient  temper,  and  checked  his  rude- 
ness, without  showing  any  disturbance.  This  she 
had  to  do  daily.  At  almost  every  meal  she  found 
it  necessary  to  repress  his  rude  impatience.  It  was 
line  upon  line,  and  precept  upon  precept.  But  she 
never  tired,  anrl  rarely  permitted  herself  to  show 
that  she  was  disturbed,  no  matter  how  deeply 
grieved  she  was  at  times  over  the  wild  and  reck- 
less spirit  of  her  boy. 

On  the  next  day  she  was  not  very  well.     Her 


40  THE    MOTHER. 

head  ached  badly  all  the  morning.  Hearing  the 
children  in  the  passage,  when  they  came  in  from 
school  at  noon,  she  was  rising  from  the  bed  where 
she  had  lain  down,  to  attend  to  them,  and  give  them 
their  dinners,  when  Aunt  Mary  said, 

"  Don't  get  up.  Anna.  I  will  see  to  the  children." 
It  was  rarely  that  ^Irs.  Hartley  let  any  one  do 
for  them  wliat  she  could  do  herself,  for  no  one  else 
could  manage  the  unhappy  temper  of  Clarence. 
But  so  violent  was  the  pain  in  her  head,  that  she 
let  Aunt  Mary  go,  and  sunk  back  upon  the  pillow 
from  which  she  had  arisen.  A  good  deal  of  noise 
and  confusion  continued  to  reach  her  ears,  from  the 
moment  the  children  came  in.  At  leiigtli  a  loud 
cry  and  passionate  words  from  Clarence  caused  her 
to  rise  up  quickly  and  go  over  to  the  dining  room. 
All  was  confusion  there,  and  Aunt  Mary  out  of 
humor,  and  scolding  prodigiously.  Clarence  was 
standing  up  at  the  table,  looking  defiance  at  her, 
on  account  of  some  interference  with  his  strong 
self-will.  The  moment  the  boy  saw  his  mother, 
his  countenance  changed,  and  a  look  of  confusion 
took  tlje  place  of  anger. 

"  Come  over  to  my  room,  Clarence,"  she  said 
in  a  low  voice;  there  was  sadness  in  its  tones, 
that  made  him  feel  sorry  that  he  had  given  vent  so 
freely  to  his  ill  temper. 


41 

^'•What  was  the  matter,  my  son?"  Mrs.  Hartley 
asked,  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  taking  Clarence 
by  the  hand,  and  lookmg  steadily  at  him. 

"  Aunt  Mary  wouldn't  help  me  when  I  asked 
her." 

"  Why  not .?" 

"  She  would  help  Henry  first." 

"  No  doubt  she  had  a  reason  for  it.  Do  you 
know  her  reason  ?" 

"  She  said  he  was  youngest."  Clarence  pouted 
out  his  lips,  and  spoke  in  a  very  disagreeable  tone. 

"  Don't  you  think  that  was  a  very  good  reason  ?" 

"  I've  as  good  a  right  to  be  helped  first  as  he 
has." 

"  Let  us  see  if  that  is  so.  You  and  Marien  and 
Henry  came  in  from  school,  all  hungry  and  anx- 
ious for  your  dinners.  Marien  is  oldest — she,  one 
would  suppose,  from  the  fact  that  she  is  oldest, 
would  be  better  able  to  feel  for  her  brothers,  and 
be  willing  to  see  their  wants  supplied  before  her 
own.  You  are  older  than  Henry,  and  should  feel 
for  him  in  the  same  way.  No  doubt  this  was 
Aunt  Mary's  reason  for  helping  Henry  first.  Had 
she  helped  Marien  r" 

"  No  ma'am." 

'^  Did  Marien  complain  ?" 

*'No  ma'am." 
4* 


42  THE    MOTHER. 

"  No  one  complained  but  my  unhappy  Clarence. 
Do  yon  know  why  you  complained  ?  I  can  tell 
you,  as  I  have  often  told  you  before.  It  is  be- 
cause you  indulge  in  very  selfish  feelings.  All 
who  do  so,  make  themselves  miserable.  If,  instead 
of  wanting  Aunt  Mary  to  help  you  first,  you  had, 
from  a  love  of  your  little  brother,  been  willing  to 
see  liim  first  attended  to,  you  would  have  enjoyed 
a  real  pleasure.  If  you  had  said — '  Aunt  Mary, 
help  Harry  first,""  I  am  sure  Henry  would  have  said 
instandy — '•No,  Aunt  Mary,  help  brother  Clarence 
first.'  How  pleasant  this  would  have  been ;  how 
happy  would  all  of  us  have  felt  at  thus  seeing  two 
little  brothers  generously  preferring  one  another," 

There  was  an  unusual  degree  of  tenderness,  even 
sadness  in  the  voice  of  his  mother,  that  affected 
Clarence.  But  he  struggled  with  his  feelings. — 
When,  however,  she  resumed,  and  said — 

''  I  have  felt  quite  sick  all  the  morning.  My 
head  has  ached  badly — so  badly  that  I  iiave  had  to 
lie  down.  I  always  give  you  your  dinners  when 
you  come  home,  and  try  to  make  you  comfortable. 
To-day  I  let  Aunt  Mary  do  it,  because  I  felt  so 
sick.  But  I  am  sorry  that  I  did  not  get  up,  sick  as 
I  was,  and  do  it  myself — then  I  m.ight  have  pre- 
vented this  unhappy  outbreak  of  my  boy's  unruly 
temper,   that   has  made   not  only  my  head  ache 


43 

ten  times  as  badly  as  it  did,  but  my  heart  ache 
also " 

Clarence  burst  into  tears,  and  throwing  his  arms 
around  his  mother's  neck,  wept  bitterly. 

"  I  will  try  and  be  good,  dear  mother !"  he  said. 
"  I  do  try  sometimes,  but  it  seems  that  I  can't." 

"  You  must  always  try,  my  dear  son.  Now  dry 
lip  your  tears,  and  go  out  and  get  your  dinner. 
Or,  if  you  would  rather  I  would  go  with  you,  I 
will  do  so." 

'•No,  dear  mother!"  replied  the  boy,  affection- 
ately— "  You  are  sick.  You  must  not  go.  T  will 
be  good." 

Clarence  kissed  his  mother  again,  and  then  re- 
turned quietly  to  the  dining  room. 

"  Naughty  boy  !"  said  Aunt  Mary,  as  he  entered, 
looking  sternly  at  him. 

A  bitter  retort  came  instantly  to  the  tongue  of 
Clarence,  but  he  checked  himself  with  a  strong 
effort,  and  took  his  place  at  the  table.  Instead  of 
soothing  the  quick  tempered  boy.  Aunt  Mary  chafed 
him  by  her  words  and  manner  during  the  whole 
meal,  and  it  was  only  the  image  of  his  mother's 
tearful  face,  and  the  remembrance  that  she  was 
sick,  that  restrained  an  outbreak  of  his  passionate 
temper. 

VViien  Clarence  left  the  table,  he  returned  to  his 


44  THE    MOTHER. 

mother's  room,  and  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow 
^vhere  her's  was  resting. 

^' I  love  you,  mother,"  he  said,  affectionately — 
"You  are  good.     But  I  hate  Aunt  Mary." 

"  O  no,  Clarence.  You  must  not  say  that  you 
hate  Aunt  Mary,  for  Aunt  Mary  is  very  kind  to 
you.     You  musn't  hate  any  body." 

"  She  isnU  kind  to  me,  mother.  She  calls  me  a 
bad  boy,  and  says  every  thing  to  make  me  angry 
when  I  want  to  be  good." 

"  Think,  my  son,  if  there  is  not  some  reason  for 
Aunt  Mary  calling  you  a  bad  boy.  You  know, 
yourself,  that  you  act  very  naughtily  sometimes, 
and  provoke  Aunt  Mary  a  great  deal." 

"  But  she  said  1  was  a  naughty  boy,  when  I 
went  out  just  now  ;  and  I  was  sorry  for  what  1  had 
done,  and  wanted  to  be  good." 

"Aunt  Mary  didn't  know  that  you  were  sorry, 
I  am  sure.  When  she  called  you  Miaughty  boy,' 
what  did  you  say  .^" 

'•I  was  going  to  say,  'you're  a  fool!'  but  .1 
didn't.  I  tried  hard  not  to  let  my  tongue  say  the 
bad  words,  though  it  wanted  to." 

"  Why  did  you  try  not  to  say  them  r" 

'•  Because  it  would  have  been  wrong,  and  would 
have  made  you  feel  sorry.  And  I  love  you.' 
Again    the  repentant  boy  kissed    her.     Plis    eyes 


45 


mother. 

While  talking  over  this  incideht  with  her  hus- 
band, Mrs.  Hartley  said, — 

"  Were  not  all  these  impressions  so  light,  I 
would  feel  encouraged.  The  boy  has  warm  and 
tender  feelings,  but  J  fear  that  his  passionate  tem- 
per and  selfishness  will,  like  evil  weeds,  complete- 
ly check  their  growth." 

'••  The  case  is  bad  enough,  Anna,  but  not  so  bad, 
I  hope,  as  you  fear.  These  good  affections  are 
never  active  in  vain.  They  impress  the  mind  with 
an  indellihle  impression.  In  after  years  the  re- 
membrance of  them  will  revive  the  states  they 
produced,  and  give  strength  to  good  desires  and 
intentions.  Amid  all  his  irregularities,  and  wan- 
derings from  good,  in  after  life,  the  thoughts  of  his 
mother  will  restore  the  feelings  he  had  to-day,  and 
draw  him  back  from  evil  with  chords  of  love  that 
cannot  be  broken.  The  good  now  implanted  will 
remain,  and,  like  ten  just  men,  save  the  city.  In 
most  instances  where  men  abandon  themselves 
finally  to  evil  courses,  it  will  be  found  that  the  j 
impressions  made  in  childhood  were  not  of  the  J 
right  kind.  That  the  mother's  influence  was  not)' 
what  it  should  have  been.  For  myself,  1  am  sure 
that  a  different  mother  would  have  made  me  a  dif-  . 


46  THE    3IOTKER. 

ferent  man  When  a  boy,  I  was  too  much  like 
Clarence ;  but  the  tenderness  with  which  my  mo- 
ther always  treated  me,  and  the  unimpassioned  but 
earnest  manner  in  w^hich  she  reproved  and  cor- 
rected my  faults,  subdued  my  unruly  temper. — 
When  I  became  restless  or  impatient,  she  always 
had  a  book  to  read  to  me,  or  a  story  to  tell,  or  had 
some  device  to  save  me  from  myself.  My  father 
was  neither  harsh  nor  indulgent  towards  me;  1 
cherish  his  memory  with  respect  and  love.  But  I 
have  different  feelings  when  I  think  of  my  mother. 
I  often  feel,  even  now,  as  if  she  were  near  me — as 
if  her  cheek  were  laid  to  mine.  My  father  would 
place  his  hand  vpon  my  heacL  caressingly,  but  my 
mother  w^ould  lay  her  cheek  against  mine.  I  did 
not  expect  my  father  to  do  more — I  do  not  know 
that  I  would  have  loved  him  had  he  done  more; 
for  him  it  was  a  natural  expression  of  affection. 
But  no  act  is  too  tender  for  a  mother.  Her  kiss 
upon  my  cheek,  her  warm  embrace,  are  all  felt 
now,  and  the  older  I  grow  the  more  holy  seem  the 
influences  that  surrounded  me  in  childhood.  To- 
day I  cut  from  a  newspaper  some  verses  that 
pleased  and  affected  me.  I  have  brought  them 
home.     Let  me  read  them  to  you. 


A  mother's  influence.  47 


"'I   DREAMED   OF    MY   MOTHER.* 

'  I  dreamed  of  my  mother,  and  sweet  to  my  soul 
Was  the  brief-given  spell  of  that  vision's  control; 
I  thought  she  stood  by  me,  all  cheerful  and  mild, 
As  when  to  her  bosom  I  clung  as  a  child, 

'  Her  features  were  bright  with  the  smiles  that  she  wore, 
"When  heeding  my  idle-tongued  prattle  of  yore  ; 
And  her  voice  had  that  kindly  and  silvery  strain 
That  from  childhood  had  dwelt  in  the  depths  of  my  brain. 

'She  spoke  of  the  days  of  her  girlhood  and  youth — 
Of  life  and  its  cares,  and  of  hope  and  its  truth; 
And  she  seemed  as  an  angel  just  winged  from  above, 
To  bring  me  a  message  of  duty  and  love. 

*  She  told  of  her  thoughts  at  the  old  village  school — 
Of  her  walks  with  her  playmates,  when  loos'd  from  its 

rule, 
Of  her  rambles  for  berries,  and  when  they  were  o'er, 


*  .She  painted  the  garden,  so  sweet  to  the  view, 

Where  the  wren  made  its  nest,  and  the  pet  flowers  grew— 
Of  the  trees  that  she  loved  for  their  scent  and  their  shade, 
Where  the  robin,  and  wild-bee,  and  humming-bird  play'd. 

*  And  she  spoke  of  the  greenwood  which  bordered  the 

farm. 
Where  her  glad  moments  glided  unmix'd  with  alarm; 

*  By  Thomas  G.  Spear. 


48  THE    MOTHER. 

Of  tlie  well  by  the  wicket  whose  waters  were  free, 
And  the  lake  with  its  white  margin  travers'd  in  glee. 

'And  she  pondered,  delighted,  the  joys  to  retrace 
Of  the  family  scenes  of  that  ruralized  place, — 
Of  its  parties  and  bridals,  its  loves  and  its  spells — 
Its  heart-clinging  ties  and  its  sadden'd  farewells. 

*  She  pictured  the  meeting-house,  where,  with  the  throng 
She  heard  the  good  pastor  and  sang  the  sweet  song — 
Of  the  call  from  the  pulpit — the  feast  at  the  shrine. 
And  the  haliow'd  communings  with  feelings  divine. 

'"And  listen,  my  son,"  she  did  smilingly  say, 
"If 'tis  pleasant  to  sing,  it  is  sweeter  to  pray — 
If  the  future  is  bright  in  the  day  of  thy  prime, 
That  britjhtness  mav  grow  with  the  fading  of  time. 


'  "Look  up  to  thy  ^laker,  my  son.  and  rejoice  !" 
Was  the  last  gentle  whisper  that  came  from  her  voice, 
While  its  soft  soothing  tones  on  my  dreaming  ear  fell, 
As  she  glided  away  with  a  smiling  farewell. 

'  There  are  dreams  of  the  heavens,  and  dreams  of  the 

earth. 
And  dreams  of  disease  that  to  phantoms  give  birth, 
But  the  hearer  of  angels,  awake  or  asleep. 
Has  a  vision  of  love  to  remember  and  keep. 

'I  awoke  from  the  spell  of  that  vision  of  night, 
And  inly  communed  with  a  quiet  delight, 
And  the  past,  and  the  present,  and  future  survey'd, 
In  the  darkness  presented  by  fancy,  array'd. 


A  mother's  influence.  49 

*I  thought  of  the  scenes  when  that  mother  wa3  nigh, 
In  a  soft  sunny  land,  and  beneath  a  mild  sky. 
When  at  matins  we  walked  to  the  heahli-giving  spring, 
With  the  dew  on  the  grass,  and  the  birds  on  the  wing. 

«  Of  the  draughts  at  the  fount  as  the  white  sun  arose, 
And  the   views  from  the  bluifs  where  the  broad  river 

flows — 
Of  the  sound  from  the  shore  of  the  fisherman's  train, 
And  the  sight  of  the  ship  as  it  sailed  to  the  main. 

*  Of  the  wild-flowers  pluck'd  from  the  glen  and  the  field, 
And  the  beauties  the  meadows  and  gardens  revealed — 
Of  all  that  she  paused  to  explain  or  explore, 

'Till  I  learned,  in  my  wonder,  to  think  and  adore. 

'And  of  joys  that  attended  the  fireside  scene, 
When  woodlands  and  meadows  no  longer  were  green— 
Of  the  sports,  and  the  tales,  and  the  holiday  glee. 
That  ever  were  rife  at  the  fond  mother's  knee. 

'  Of  the  duties  of  home,  and  the  studies  of  school, 
With  the  many  delights  that  divided  their  rule, 
'Till  the  sunshine  of  boyhood  had  ended,  and  brought 
The  cares  and  the  shadows  of  manhood  and  thought. 

*  And  I  sighed  for  the  scenes  that  had  faded  away, 
For  the  forms  that  had  fallen  from  age  to  decay — 

For  the  friends  who  had  vanished,  while  looking  before, 
To  paths  that  their  feet  were  forbid  to  explore. 

*  And  glancing  beyond,  through  the  vista  of  time, 
With  a  soul  full  of  hope,  and  with  life  in  its  prime, 

5 


'50  THE    MOTHER. 

Though  flowers  by  memory  cherished  had  died 
Life's  garden  was  still  with  some  blossoms  supplied. 

'And  oft  as  that  dream  to  my  spirit  comes  back, 
A  newness  of  thought  re-illumines  my  track, — '  " 


"  Pure  and  tender.  The  mother  who  called 
forth  that  heart-warm  tribute  was,  doubtless,  a  good 
motlier,"  said  Anna. 

"  You  remember  Cowper's  lines,  written  on  re- 
ceiving his  mother's  picture  .^"  remarked  her  hus- 
band, after  musing  for  a  short  time. 

"  O,  yes.  Very  well.  They  have  often  affected 
me  to  tears. 

'  O  that  those  lips  had  language  !     Life  has  passed 
But  roughly  with  me  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see, 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me  ; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say 
*  Grieve  not.  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away.'  '^ 

"To  him,  how  great  Avas  the  loss  he  sustained 
in  the  death  of  his  mother.  Had  she  lived,  the 
deep  melancholy  that  seized  him  in  after  life  might 
never  have  occurred.  With  what  simple  eloquence 
he  describes  his  loss."  And  Mr.  Hartley  repeated 
a  passage  of  the  poem. 


51 

"' My  mother  !  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead, 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son, 
Wretched,  e^en  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss  : 

Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss 

Ah,  that  maternal  smile  !  it  answers — Yes. 

I  heard  the  bell  toll  on  thy  burial  day, 

I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 

And  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 

A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu  ! 

But  was  it  such  ? — It  was. — Where  thou  art  gone 

Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 

May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 

Thy  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more  ! 

Thy  maidens  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wished,  I  long  believed, 

And  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived. 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  of^  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

'Till  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learned  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot.' " 

Mrs.  Hartley  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hus- 
band's shoulder,  unable  to  restrain  the  tears  that 
were  springing  to  her  eye. 

"If  Heaven  only  spares  me  to  my  children,  it  is 
all  J  ask,"  she  murmured.     "  I  will  be  patient  with 


53  THE    MOTHER. 

[and  forbearing  towards  them.  I  will  discharge  my 
'duties  with  unwearied  diligence.  Who  can  fill  a 
mother's  place  ?  Alas  !  no  one.  If  any  voice  had 
been  as  full  of  love  for  him  when  a  child,  if  any 
hand  had  ministered  to  him  as  tenderly,  this  touch- 
ing remembrance  of  his  mother  would  never  have 
been  recorded  by  Cowper. 

" '  Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 

That  thou  might'st  find  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 

Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum  ; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheek  bestow'd 

By  thy  own  hand,  'till  fiesh  they  shone  and  glowed: 

All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 

That  humor  interposed  too  often  makes. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Would'st  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile) 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear, 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  T  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  muchj 


A  mother's  influence.  53 

That  I  slioiild  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again.' 

"  Ah,  who  could  be  unkind  to  a  motherless  one  .'"' 
"  The  lot  of  an  orphan  child  is  not  always  as 
sad  a  one  as  must  have  been  that  of  young  Cow- 
per,"  said  Mr.  Hartley,  "  for  it  is  but  rarely  that  a 
child  possesses  the  delicate  or  rather  morbid  sensi- 
bility that  characterized  him." 

"  I  could  not  bear  to  think  that  any  child  of 
mine  would  remember  me  with  less  tenderness," 
replied  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  Even  though  it  embitter  his  whole  life." 
"No — no.     It  was  the  mother's  selfishness,  not 
the  mother's  love  that  spoke,"  she    instantly  re- 
turned. 

"  To  recur  to  what  we  were  first  talking  about," 
said  Mr.  Hartley,  after  a  pause.  "  There  cannot 
be  a  doubt,  that  the  whole  life  of  the  child  is 
affected  by  the  mother's  character,  and  the  influ- 
ences she  has  brought  to  bear  upon  him.  I  could 
point  to  many  instances  that  have  come  under  my 
own  observation  that  illustrate  this.  The  father  of 
one  of  my  schoolmates  was  a  man  of  a  highly  cul- 
tivated mind,  and  polished  manners;  his  mother 
was  the  reverse.  The  son  is  like  the  mother.  As 
a  man,  he  did  not  rise  in  society  at  all,  and  is  now 
5* 


64  THE    MOTHER. 

the  keeper  of  a  billiard  saloon.  In  another  in- 
stance, the  father  was  a  low  minded  man,  and  in- 
clined to  dissipation.  Nearly  the  whole  burden 
of  the  support  of  the  family  fell  upon  the  mother; 
but  her  children  always  came  to  school  neat  and 
clean.  Their  behavior  was  good,  and  they  studied 
Mith  diligence.  Only  one  of  four  sons  turned  out 
badly.  Three  of  them  are  now  merchants  in  good 
business,  and  the  mother's  declining  years  are 
blessed  by  their  kindest  attentions.  You  see,  then, 
Anna,  how^  much  you  have  to  encourage  you." 

"  If  there  was  nothing  to  encourage  me,  love 
and  duty  would  make  me  persevere." 

"But  there  is  much.  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the 
waters,  and  it  shall  be  found  after  many  days." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE     BIRTH-DAY     PARTY. 

"Next  Saturday  is  Marien's  birth-day,  Aunt 
Mary,"  said  Mrs.  Hardey.  "  She  will  be  just 
eleven  years  old,  and  she  must  have  a  party." 

"She  mustn't  have  any  such  thing,  Anna.— 
What  nonsense  I" 


THE    BIRTH-DAY    PARTY.  55 

"  Why  do  you  call  it  nonsense  ?" 

"  It  will  only  be  putting  silly  notions  into  her  head. 
You  had  a  great  deal  better  take  the  money  it  would 
cost  and  give  it  for  some  charitable  purpose." 

"  Take  care,  Aunt  Mary,  or  I  shall  retort  upon 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  smiling. 

"You  can  retort  as  much  as  you  please.  I'll 
warrant  you  can  find  no  fooleries  like  giving  par- 
ties to  little  misses,  when  they  had  better  be  in  their 
beds,  to  charge  upon  me." 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  that  giving  of  the  money 
for  charitable  purposes,  is  what  I  should  like  to  say 
a  word  about.  Last  week  you  bought  a  new  satin 
coat,  and  gave  three  dollars  a  yard  for  the  satin. 
Why  didn't  you  buy  one  of  good  warm  merino, 
or  even  silk,  and  give  the  balance  to  some  charity  } 
Answer  me  that.  Aunt  Mary  !" 

"  I  am  not  going  to  be  catechised  by  you.  Miss 
Pert — so  just  hold  your  tongue,"  was  Aunt  Mary's 
reply,  made  half  in  anger  and  half  in  playfulness. 

"  Very  well.  ?:  the  matter  of  the  charity  is  all 
settled — and  now  what  have  you  to  say  against 
the  party  to  Marien,  considered  upon  its  abstract 
merits  ?" 

"A  great  deal.  It  will  be  filling  the  child's 
head  with  vain  and  wicked  tiioughts — thoughts  of 
mere  worldly  show  and  pleasure.     No  doubt  you 


56  THE     MOTHER. 

will  dress  her  and  the  rest  of  them  up  like  puppets, 
to  make  them  as  proud  and  vain  as  Lucifer  himself. 
Other  people  will  send  their  children  here  tricked 
out  and  furbelowed  just  like  them.  And  then, 
Avhat  a  nice  little  Vanity  Fair  you  will  have.  It  is 
a  downright  sin  and  shame,  Anna,  for  you  to  think 
of  such  a  thing.  It  isn't  only  your  children  that 
are  injured,  but  you  tempt  other  people  to  injure 
theirs." 

"■Heaven  grant  that  neither  my  children  nor  the 
children  of  my  friends  may  ever  be  subjected  to 
worse  influences  than  they  \vill  be  under  at  Ma- 
rien's  party,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley,  with  some  warmth. 

Just  then  Clarence  came  bounding  into  the  room, 
singing  so  loud  as  to  drown  the  voice  of  Aunt 
Mary,  who  had  commenced  a  reply. 

''  Do  hush,  you  noisy  fellow  !"  she  said,  fret- 
fully— ""You  are  enough  to  set  any  one  crazy!" 

The  boy  did  not  seem  to  regard  the  words  of 
his  aunt  any  more  than  he  would  the  passing 
wind.  But  when  his  mother  said,  softly,  "  Cla- 
rence !"  and  looking  him  in  the  face,  he  was  in- 
stantly quiet. 

Aunt  3Iary  noticed  the  effect  of  the  mother's  low- 
voiced  word  in  contrast  with  her  own  peevish  com- 
plaint, and  it  annoyed  her  so  much  that  she  would 
not  trust  herself  to  utter  what  she  was  about  sayingf. 


THE    BIRTH-DAY    PARTY.  57" 

"  Next  Saturday  is  Marien's  birth-day,"  said  the 
mother,  as  Clarence  came  up  to  her  side  and  leaned 
against  her. 

"  Is  it  r"  and  the  boy  looked  intently  in  his  mo- 
ther's face. 

"Yes.  She  will  be  just  eleven  years  old.  And 
she  must  have  a  party." 

"  O,  yes '"  said  Clarence  in  a  quick,  animated 
voice,  clapping-  his  hands  together.  Marien  is  a 
good  girl,  and  she  shall  have  a  party." 

"  You  love  Marien,  don't  you,  Clarence  .^" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Why  do  you  love  her  .^" 

"  Because  she  is  so  good.  Every  body  loves 
her" 

"  Because  she  is  good  ?'' 

"  Yes." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  every  body  to  love  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother.    But  I  can't  be  good  like  Marien." 

«  Why  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  ;  but  I  can't." 

"  What  will  you  do  at  Marien's  party  ?" 

"  I  will  dance  with  all  the  little  girls,  and  be  as 
kind  and  good  to  them  as  I  can." 

"  Who  shall  be  invited  ?" 

"  All  the  children  we  know,  except  Tom  Peters 
and  Sarah  Jones." 


58  THE    MOTHER. 

A  frown  gathered  upon  tlie  boy's  face  as  lie  ut- 
tered these  names. 

"  Why  not  invite  them,  Clarence  ?" 

"Because  I  don't  like  them." 

"  Why  don't  you  like  them  ?" 

"Tom  threw  stones  at  me  the  other  day,  and 
Sarah  called  me  a  rude  ugly  boy." 

"  Why  did  Tom  throw  stones  at  you  ?" 

Clarence  was  silent. 

"  Perhaps  you  did  something  to  him." 

"  I  only  laughed  at  him  because  he  fell  down." 

"  Did  he  ever  throw  stones  at  you  before :" 

"No." 

"  You  were  always  good  friends." 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Then  you  were  first  in  the  wrong.  You  pro- 
voked him  to  throw  stones  at  you." 

"I  only  laughed  at  him,  and  I  couldn't  help  it. 
He  fell  in  the  mud,  and  soiled  his  clothes  all 
over." 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  any  thing  to  laugh  at. 
Suppose  Marien  had  been  in  your  place  ?  What 
do  you  think  she  would  have  done  t  Would  she 
have  laughed  at  him  .?" 

"No;  I  am  sure  she  wouldn"'t." 

"  What  would  she  have  done  ?" 

"I  suppose  she  would  have  gone  to  him,  and 


THE    BIRTH-DAY    PARTY.  59 

brushed  all  the  dirt  from  his  clothes,  and  told  him 
that  she  was  very  sorry  he  had  fallen  down." 

"You  said  just  now  that  Marien  was  a  good 
girl." 

"  And  so  she  is." 

"  And  that  you  loved  her  because  she  was  good." 

"So  I  do." 

"  Was  you  good  when  you  laughed  at  Thomas 
Peters  r" 

"  I  don't  think  I  was." 

"  Would  he  throw  stones  at  Marien  .'" 

"  No,  indeed.  Nobody  would  throw  stones  at 
her.     Everybody  loves  her." 

"It  is  plain  then,  that  it  was  because  you  were 
not  good  that  Thomas  Peters  threw  stones  at  you. 
He  did  not  throw  stones  at  good  Clarence,  but 
at  bad  Clarence.  Is  it  not  so  ?  Now  don't  you 
think  you  can  forgive  him,  when  you  remember 
how  you  provoked  him.  Suppose  you  had  fallen 
in  the  mud,  and  he  had  laughed  at  you,  would  not 
you  have  been  just  as  likely  to  have  thrown  stones 
at  him  ?" 

"  Maybe  1  would." 

"  Suppose  the  good  Lord  would  not  forgive  us 
for  all  the  evil  we  do,  what  do  you  think  would 
become  of  us  }  And  he  will  not  forgive  us,  unless 
we  forgive  others  their  trespasses  against  us. — 


60  THE    MOTHER. 

Remember  that,  my  dear  boy.  You  will  have 
Thomas  invited,  I  am  sure." 

"Yes,  mother;  for  I  believe  I  was  wrong,"  the 
boy  replied  in  a  softened  tone.  "  And  we  will  in- 
vite Sarah  Jones  too.  I  don't  believe  she  would 
have  called  me  what  she  did,  if  I  had  not  run 
against  her  little  brother  and  pushed  him  down. 
She  loves  Marien,  and  I  know  would  be  very  sorry 
if  she  couldn't  come  to  her  party." 

"That  is  right,  my  boy.  To  forgive  is  sweet. 
You  feel  happier  now." 

"  I  don't  hate  Tom  Peters  like  I  did." 

"You  didn't  hate  him  of  yourself,  my  son.  But 
you  allowed  wicked  spirits  to  come  into  your 
heart,  and  you  felt  the  hatred  they  bear  towards 
every  one.  I  am  glad  that  they  are  cast  out. 
Whenever  we  permit  them  to  come  into  our  hearts, 
they  make  us  very  unhappy.  If  we  suffer  not  the 
evil  spirits  to  come  into  us,  angels  will  be  our 
companions,  and  they  will  make  us  love  every 
one." 

"They  must  always  be  with  sister  Marien  then ; 
for  she  loves  every  body.'"" 

"They  will  always  be  with  you,  if  you  will  let 
them,  my  son.     Will  you  not  try  .^" 

"  I  do  try,  mother.  But  I  am  so  bad  that  the 
angels  won't  stay  with  me." 


THE    BIRTH-DAY  PARTY. 


61 


"What  nonsense  to  talk  in  that  way  to  chil- 
dren," said  Aunt  Mary,  as  Clarence,  hearing  the 
voice  of  his  sister,  glided  away  to  talk  to.  her  about 
her  party. 

"  I  believe  all  I  have  said  to  be  true,"  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley returned. 

"  True  !  How  can  you  talk  so  ?  Wicked  spirits 
and  angels  in  them  !     A  mere  fiction  !" 

"Not  quite  so  much  of  a  fiction  as  you  may 
think.  But  we  will  not  hold  an  argument  on  that 
subject,  for  it  would  be  of  no  use.  I  think,  how- 
ever, that  you  will  admit  that,  if  Marien's  party 
effect  no  more  good  than  you  have  just  seen  done, 
it  will  be  well  worth  giving." 

"We  are  not  to  do  evil  that  good  may  come." 
And  Aunt  Mary  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  looked  as 
grave  as  a  deacon. 

Mrs.  Hartley  smiled,  but  made  no  further  ob- 
servation. 

All  was  merriment  and  glad  anticipation,  when 
it  became  known  among  the  children  that  Marien 
was  to  have  a  birth-day  party.  Preparations  for  it 
were  set  on  foot  immediately,  and  invitations  in 
due  form  made  out,  and  sent  around  to  all  of  her 
little  friends.  When  the  evening  came,  some 
twenty  or  thirty  bright  young  faces  were  seen  in 
the  parlors  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley.     Among  the 


63  THE    MOTHER. 

number  were  Thomas  Peters  and  Sarah  Jones,  and 
it  was  a  pure  gratification  to  Mrs.  Hartley  to  see 
Clarence  take  the  former  by  the  hand  with  manly 
frankness,  and  speak  kindly  to  the  latter,  when  thev 
came  in.  His  eye  caught  the  expression  of  her  face 
at  the  time.  It  warmed  his  heart, — nay,  impressed  it 
ineffaceably.  He  remembered  it  even  in  manhood, 
with  pleasure. 

The  evening  was  a  merry  one  for  all.  Even 
Aunt  Mary  forgot,  more  than  half  of  her  time,  the 
little  objection  she  had  to  ''  profane  music,"  and 
dancing.  Such  romping  and  wild,  happy  merri- 
ment as  was  there,  is  not  often  seen.  Mrs.  Hartley 
was  among  them  as  if  but  a  child  herself,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy  it  as  much  as  the  gayest  little 
urchin  of  the  whole  company.  But,  while  she  ap- 
peared to  enter  into  the  sports  of  the  children  as 
if  one  of  them,  she  guided  all  their  movements,  and 
maintained  a  beautiful  order  throughout  all.  The 
ardent  temperaments  of  the  older  children  were 
restrained  by  modes  not  seen  nor  felt  by  them, 
while  the  younger  ones  she  interested  in  various 
ways,  that  kept  them  together,  and  protected  from 
the  thoughtless  rudeness  of  their  elders.  Not  a 
string  jarred  in  harsh  discord  during  the  whole 
evening.  When  the  hour  came  for  separation,  a 
hundred  kind  wishes  were  uttered  for  Marien,  and 


THE    BIRTH-DAY    PARTY.  63 

they  all  parted  happier  and  better  than  when  they 
came. 

'^  I  don't  know  how  they  can  be  better,"  said 
Aunt  Mary,  to  whom  Mrs.  Hartley  made  a  remark 
on  the  next  day,  simikr  to  what  we  have  just 
littered. 

"It  is  because  they  love  one  another  more," 
Mrs.  Hartley  replied,  in  her  usual  quiet  w^ay. 

It  is  good  thus  to  bring  children  together  often.  \ 
It  creates  and  cherishes  social  feelings,  and  causes 
them  to  regard  one  another  less  selfishly  than  all 
are  inclined  to  do.  The  spirits  of  children  are 
active,  and  will  flow  out  in  spite  of  all  that  may 
unwisely  be  done  to  restrain  them.  It  is  the  duty 
of  parents  to  provide  good  forms  into  which  these 
can  flow,  and  find  their  delight.  Can  any  thing  be 
more  suitable  than  social  recreations,  in  which 
many  can  join  together  in  innocent  mirth  }  We 
think  not.  And  so  thought  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley. 
It  was  for  this  reason  that  the  birth-day  of  every 
child  was  celebrated  by  some  kind  of  festivities,     r 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CORRECTING     A     FAULT. 

Mrs.  Hartley  noticed  with  pleasure,  that  for 
days  after  the  party,  the  children  were  happier, 
and  more  easily  interested  than  before.  This  she 
had  always  observed  on  similar  occasions.  In  a 
little  while,  however,  things  were  going  on  pretty 
much  ill  their  usual  course,  and  she  was  called 
upon  to  exercise  all  her  tact  and  judgment  in  draw- 
ing the  lines  between  them,  so  as  to  protect  each 
one  in  his  or  her  rights  and  privileges.  All  diffi- 
culties were  submitted  to  her  husband,  and  the 
best  means  to  overcome  them  discussed  between 
them. 

"  There  are  two  faults  in  Clarence  and  Henry," 
she  said  to  Mr.  Hartley  about  this  period,  "  that  I 
am  at  a  loss  how  to  correct.  They  are  bad  faults, 
and  will  affect  their  characters  through  life,  if  not 
judiciously  corrected  now.  Clarence  looks  with 
an  envious  eye  upon  every  thing  that  Henry  has, 
and  manages,  sooner  or  later,  to  get  possession  of 
it  by  his  brother's  consent.  Henry  soon  tires  of 
64 


CORRECTING    A    FAULT.  65 

vhat  he  has,  and  is  easily  induced  to  part  with  it 
to  Clarence  for  some  trifling  consideration.  It  is 
not  long,  however,  before  he  wants  it  back  again, 
and  then  trouble  ensues.  Sometimes  I  think  I  will 
make  a  law  that  neither  Clarence  nor  his  brother 
shall  part  with  any  thing  that  has  been  given  to 
him.  But  I  am  afraid  of  the  effect  of  this.  It  will 
foster  a  selfish  spirit.  It  will  allow  of  no  generous 
self-sacrifice  for  the  good  of  others." 

"  I  think  with  you,  that  the  effect  would  not  be 
good.  Still,  it  is  very  important  that  a  certain 
feeling  of  property  in  what  each  one  has  should 
be  preserved.  As  far  as  this  can  be  accomplished, 
without  strengthening  the  selfish  tendency  of  our 
nature,  it  should  be  done.  It  causes  each  one  not 
only  to  protect  his  own  rights,  but  to  regard  the 
rights  of  his  neighbors.'" 

"  I  see  all  that  very  clearly.  The  happy  me- 
dium is  what  I  desire  to  attain.  As  things  are 
now,  the  disposition  which  Clarence  has  to  appro- 
priate every  thing  to  himself  is  fostered,  and  Henry 
is  losing  that  just  regard  to  his  own  rights  that  he 
ought  to  have.  Now,  what  ought  I  to  do  ?  Can 
you  devise  a  plan  ?" 

'*•  Not  so  well  as  you  can.  But  let  me  see. 
Suppose  you  try  this  mode  for  a  while.  Make  a 
law,  that  if  Henry  give  Clarence  any  of  his  play- 


66  THE    MOTHER. 

things,  the  right  to  possess  them  shall  be  as  per- 
fect as  if  you  or  I  had  presented  them  to  Clarence 
as  his  own.  The  practical  working  of  this  will, 
in  a  short  time,  make  Henry  reflect  a  little  before 
he  relinquishes  his  property  to  his  brother." 

"That  will  do,  I  think,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley. 
"There  will  be  no  harm  in  trying  it,  at  any 
rate." 

On  the  next  day  she  gave  Clarence  a  new  book, 
and  Henry  a  humming-top. 

"Now  let  me  tell  you  something,"  she  said. 
"This  book  belongs  to  you,  Clarence, and  this  top 
to  you,  Henry.  I  hope  they  will  please  you  very 
much,  and  that  you  will  take  good  care  of  them. 
You  can  lend  them  to  each  other,  if  you  choose ; 
but  I  would  rather  you  would  not  give  them  to 
each  other.  Should  either  of  you  do  so,  the  one 
who  gives  his  book  or  his  top  away,  cannot  re- 
claim it  again.     Do  you  understand,  Henry  .'" 

"  O  yes,  ma'am,  I  understand.  I'm  not  going  to 
give  any  body  my  top,  I  know." 

"Very  well,  my  son.  You  can  do  so  if  you 
wish.  But  remember,  after  you  have  once  given 
it  away,  you  cannot  get  it  back  again." 

"Why  can't  I,  mother  r"  asked  the  little  boy. 

"  Because,  after  you  have  given  any  thing  away, 
it  is  no  lono^er  vours." 


CORRECTING    A    FAULT.  67 

"  I'm  not  going  to  give  it  away,"  he  said,  in  a 
positive  voice,  as  he  ran  off  to  spin  his  top  in  the 
play  room. 

For  about  an  hour  Clarence  was  very  much  inte- 
rested in  his  book,  while  Henry  continued  to  spin 
his  top  with  undiminished  pleasure.  After  this 
time  the  interest  of  Clarence  began  to  flag,  and  the 
sound  of  Henry's  humming  top  came  more  and 
more  distinctly  to  his  ears  from  the  adjoining  room. 
At  last  he  closed  the  book  and  sought  his  brother. 

'•  Let  me  spin  it  once,  won't  you,  Henry  ?"  he 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  returned  the  generous-minded 
boy,  and  instantly  handed  the  top  and  cord  to 
Clarence,  who  wound  it  up,  and  sent  it  humming 
and  skipping  about  the  floor  at  a  grand  rate. 

Henry  reached  out  iiis  hand  for  the  cord,  but  his 
brother  held  it  back,  saying, 

"Just  let  me  spin  it  once  more." 

"  Well,  you  may  once  more,"  was  replied. 

But  it  was  "  once  more,"  and  "  once  more," 
until  Henry's  tears  restored  to  him  his  toy. 

"You  are  a  selfish  fellow,"  said  Clarence,  as  he 
flung  the  top  and  cord  at  his  brother's  feet. 

Clarence  did  not  resume  his  book,  but  stood 
looking  at  Henry's  top,  as  he  spun  it,  with  a  covet- 
ous expression  on  his  face. 


68  THE    MOTHER. 

"If  you'll  let  me  spin  your  top,  you  may  read 
my  book,"  he  at  length  said. 

"  I  will,"  quickly  returned  Henry. 

The  top  and  book  were  exchanged,  and,  for  a 
time,  both  were  well  pleased.  But  the  book  was 
rather  beyond  the  grasp  of  Henry's  mind.  He 
tired  of  it  soon. 

"You  may  have  your  book  now,  Clarence. — 
I'm  done  reading  it.    Give  me  my  top,  won't  you  .'" 

"  I'm  not  done  with  it  yet.  I  let  you  read  my 
book  until  you  were  tired,  and  now  you  must  let 
me  spin  your  top  until  I  am  tired." 

Henry  rarely  contended  with  his  brother.  He 
did  not  like  contention.  Knowing  how  resolute 
Clarence  was  in  doing  any  thing  that  suited  his 
humor,  he  said  no  more,  but  went  and  sat  down 
quietly  upon  a  litde  chair,  and  looked  on  wishfully 
while  Clarence  spun  his  top. 

It  was  half  an  hour  before  Henry  again  got  pos- 
session of  his  top;  but  the  zest  with  which  he  had 
at  first  played  with  it  was  gone.  Afier  throwing  it 
for  a  few  times  he  said — 

"  Here,  Clarence,  you  may  have  it.  I  don't 
-want  it." 

"  May  I  have  it  for  good  .'"  eagerly  asked  Cla- 
rence. 

''  Yes,  for  good." 


CORRECTING    A    FAULT.  69 

"You'll  want  it  back." 

"  No,  I  won't.     You  may  keep  it  for  ever." 

Clarence  took  possession  of  the  top  with  right 
good  will,  and  went  on  spinning  it  to  his  heart's 
content.  After  dinner  Henry  wanted  it  back  again, 
and  when  his  brother  refused  to  give  it  up,  went 
crying  to  his  mother.  Mrs.  Hartley  called  up 
Clarence,  and  asked  him  why  he  did  not  give 
Henry  his  top. 

"  It  isn't  his  top,  mother ;  it  is  mine,"  said 
Clarence. 

"  Yours  !    How  came  it  yours  .^" 

"  Henry  gave  it  to  me." 

"  Did  you  give  it  to  him,  Henry  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  this  morning.:  But  it's  my  top, 
and  I  want  it." 

"No,  it  is  not  your  top  any  longer  if  you  have 
given  it  to  Clarence.  It  is  his,  and  he  must  keep 
it.  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  told  you  when  [ 
gave  it  to  you.  If  you  give  away  your  things, 
they  are  no  longer  yours,  and  you  cannot  expect 
to  get  them  back  again.  I  hope,  my  son,  that, 
hereafter,  you  will  be  more  careful  what  you 
do." 

Henry  cried  bitterly,  but  his  mother  would  not 
compel  Clarence,  upon  whom  Henry's  tears  had 
no  effect,  to  restore  the  toy.     The  poor  litde  fel- 


70  THE    MOTHER. 

low's  lieart  was  almost  broken  at  this  hard  lesson 
in  the  school  of  human  life. 

In  about  a  week,  Mrs.  Hartley  tried  it  over  again. 
Gifts  were  made  to  the  children,  and  soon  Clarence 
\vent  to  work  to  get  possession  of  what  his  brother 
had.  But  Henry  had  not  forgotten  the  top,  and 
^vas,  therefore,  not  quite  so  generous  as  before. 
He  withstood  every  effort  for  the  first  day.  On 
the  second,  however,  he  yielded.  On  the  follow- 
ing day  he  reclaimed  his  toys  ;  but  his  mother  in- 
terposed again,  and  maintained  Clarence's  right  to 
Avhat  Henry  had  given  him. 

The  poor  child  seemed  unable  to  comprehend 
the  justice  of  this  decision,  and  grieved  so  much 
about  it,  that  Mrs.  Hartley  felt  unhappy.  But  ulti- 
mate good,  she  was  sure,  would  be  the  result, 
painful  as  it  might  be  to  correct  her  child's  fault. 

On  the  next  occasion,  Clarence  found  it  much 
harder  to  prevail  upon  Henry  to  give  him  his  play- 
things than  before.  The  same  result  following, 
the  little  fellow's  eyes  began  to  be  opened.  He 
would  look  ahead  and  think  when  Clarence  want- 
ed him  to  give  him  any  thing,  and  the  recollection 
of  the  permanent  losses  he  had  already  sustained, 
at  length  gave  him  the  resolution  to  persevere  in 
refusing  to  yield  up  his  right  to  any  thing  that  had 
been  given  to  him.     He  would  lend  whatever  he 


CORRECTING    A    FAULT.  71 

had,  cheerfully.  But  when  asked  to  give,  he  gene- 
rally said — 

"No. — If  I  give  it  to  you,  I  can't  get  it  back 
again." 

The  parents  did  not  like  to  check  the  generous 
spirit  of  their  child,  but  they  felt  that  it  was  neces- 
sary both  for  his  good  and  the  good  of  his  brother, 
that  he  should  be  taught  to  set  a  higher  value  upon 
what  was  his  own.  If  he  were  not  led  to  do  this 
while  young,  it  might  prevent  his  usefulness  when 
a  man,  by  leaving  him  the  prey  of  every  one. — 
Besides,  the  want  of  a  due  regard  to  his  own 
property  in  any  thing  was  not  right. 

Another  fault  in  Henry  they  felt  bound  to  visit 
with  a  rigid  system  of  correction.  He  was  natu- 
rally an  obedient  child,  while  his  brother  was  the 
reverse.  He  was  also  very  yielding,  and  could 
easily  be  persuaded  by  Clarence  to  join  in  acts 
which  were  forbidden  by  their  parents.  When 
called  to  account,  his  usual  excuse  was,  that  he 
had  been  asked  by  Clarence,  or  had  gone  with 
him.  He  did  not  appear  to  think  that  he  was  to 
blame  for  any  thing,  if  he  acted  upon  his  older 
brother's  suggestions.  The  only  way  to  correct 
this,  was  to  let  each  be  punished  for  offences  mu- 
tually committed,  even  tiiough  Henry  was  far  less 
to  blame  than  Clarence.     It  was  only  by  doing  so, 


72  THE    3I0THER. 

the  parents  felt,  that  Henry  could  be  made  to  see 
that  he  must  be  held  responsible  for  his  own  acts. 
This  course  soon  effected  all  they  desired.  Cla- 
rence was  usually  alone  in  all  flagrant  violations 
of  parental  authority. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

A     STRONG     CONTRAST. 

Nearer  than  Mrs.  Hartley  had  supposed,  lived 
for  many  years  an  old  but  now  almost  forgotten 
friend — Florence  Armitage  •,  or  rather,  Mrs.  Archer. 

We  will  introduce  her  on  the  very  night  that 
Marien's  birth-day  party  took  place,  by  way  of 
contrast.  The  house  in  which  she  lives  is  a  small, 
comfortless  one,  in  an  obscure  street  not  far  from 
the  residence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley.  Her  father 
has  become  poor,  and  her  husband,  whose  habits 
are  more  irregular  than  when  a  single  man,  receives 
a  small  salary  as  clerk,  more  than  half  of  which  he 
spends  in  self-indulgence ;  the  other  half  is  eked 
out  to  his  wife,  who,  on  this  pittance,  is  compelled 
to  provide  for  five  children.  She  has  had  six,  but 
one  is  dead. 


A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  73 

It  was  a  clear  bright  evening  without,  but  there 
"was  nothing  cheerful  in  the  dwelling  of  William 
Archer.  The  supper  table  was  in  the  floor,  and 
on  it  burned  a  poor  light.  The  mother  sal  near 
the  table,  with  an  infant  on  her  lap,  mending  a  pair 
of  dark  stockings  with  coarse  yarn  of  a  lighter 
color.  A  little  girl,  three  years  of  age,  was  swing- 
ing on  her  chair,  and  a  boy  two  years  older  was 
drumming  on  the  floor  with  two  large  sticks,  ma- 
king a  deafening  noise.  This  noise  Mrs.  Archer 
bore  as  long  as  she  could,  when  her  patience  be- 
coming exhausted,  she  cried  out  in  a  loud,  fretful 
voice — 

"  You  Bill !     Stop  that  noise  !" 

The  boy  paused  for  a  single  moment,  and  then 
resumed  his  amusement. 

"  Did  you  hear  me,  Bill  ?  you  heedless  wretch  !'' 
exclaimed  the  mother,  after  she  had  borne  the 
sound  for  some  time  longer. 

There  was  silence  for  about  a  minute — and  the 
noise  began  again. 

"  If  you  don't  stop  that,  Bill,  FlI  box  your  ears 
soundly,"  screamed  the  impatient  mother. 

The  boy  stopped  for  the  space  of  nearly  two 
minutes  this  time ;  then  he  went  on  again  with  his 
drumming. 
7 


74"  THE    3I0THER. 

"  Do  yon  want  me  to  send  you  to  bed  without 
your  supper  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  replied  the  child. 

"Then  hush  that  noise,  or  I  shall  certainly  send 
you  to  bed.     You  set  me  almost  crazy." 

Bill,  as  his  motlier  called  him,  laid  himself  back 
upon  the  floor,  and  commenced  kicking  up  his  heels. 
After  having  amused  himself  in  this  way  for  some 
time,  his  drum-sticks  were  again  resorted  to,  and 
the  room  was  once  more  filled  with  the  distracting 
din  he  made.  Mrs.  Archer  bore  it  as  long  as  she 
could,  and  then  she  boxed  the  child's  ears  soundly. 

After  the  cries  this  operation  extorted  had  died 
away,  all  was  quiet  enough  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  when  Mr.  Archer  came  in  to  tea. 

Twelve  years  had  changed  him  sadly.  His 
brow  was  gloomy,  his  eyes  sunken,  and  his  lips 
closely  drawn  together,  giving  his  countenance  an 
expression  of  sternness.  He  looked  at  least  twenty 
years  older.  He  did  not  even  cast  his  eyes  upon 
his  wife  as  he  entered,  but  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table,  and  taking  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  be- 
gan reading  it. 

"Bill,  go  and  tell  Jane  to  bring  up  tea,"  said 
Mrs.  Archer. 

The  child  went  out  into  the  passage,  and  cried 
down  to  the  cook,  in  a  tone  of  authority — 


A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  75 

"  Bring  up  tea,  will  you  ?" 

No  notice  was  taken  of  this  by  the  parents.  Jane 
came  up  with  the  tea,  looking  as  sulky  as  possible. 

''  Here,  take  the  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Archer,  hand- 
ing Jane  the  child  in  a  most  ungracious  manner. 
Jane  took  the  child  quite  as  ungraciously  as  it  was 
tendered,  and  managed  to  keep  it  crying  most  of 
the  time  they  were  at  supper. 

"  Where  is  John  ?"  asked  Mr.  Archer,  looking 
up  at  his  wife  when  about  half  through  v/ith  his 
silent  meal. 

''  Dear  knows,  for  I  don't !  He  came  in  from 
school,  but  was  off  at  once  as  usual.  He  is  going 
to  ruin  as  fast  as  ever  a  boy  was." 

"Why  do  you  let  him  run  the  streets  in  this 
way .?" 

"  He's  got  beyond  me.  I  don't  pretend  to  try  to 
manage  him.  I  might  just  as  well  tell  him  to  go 
as  stay.  It  would  be  all  the  same  to  him.  It's 
high  lime  you  had  taken  him  in  hand,  I  can  tell 
you.  Florence  is  at  her  grandmother's,  and  I  in- 
tended sending  John  after  her  an  hour  ago.  But 
he  hasn't  shown  himself." 

Mr.  Archer  did  not  reply ;  he  felt  worried  and 
angry.  While  they  were  yet  at  the  table,  John,  a 
'ad  of  some  eleven  years  old,  came  in,  and  threw 
his  hat  down  in  the  corner. 


76  THE     MOTHER. 

"Go  and  bang  your  hat  up,  sir,"  said  his  father. 
"  Is  that  the  place  for  it  ?" 

John  did  as  he  was  ordered. 

"Now,  where  have  you  been,  sir?"  was  the 
father^s  angry  interrogation. 

"  J've  been  playing." 

"  What  business  have  you  to  go  off  without  ask- 
ing your  mother  ?  I've  a  great  mind  to  take  off 
your  jacket  for  you,  sir.  If  ever  I  hear  of  this 
again,  I'll  give  you  such  a  lacing  as  you've  never 
had  in  your  life.  Don't  sit  down  to  the  table 
there !  Go,  put  on  your  hat  again,  and  be  off  for 
your  sister." 

"  Where  is  she  r" 

"  Where  is  she  .'"  mimicking  the  tones  and  man- 
ner of  the  boy.  "  At  your  grandmother's,"  said 
Mr.  Archer. — "  Go  along  after  her,  and  be  quick. 
She  ought  to  have  been  home  more  than  an  hour 
ago." 

John  went  out  slowly  and  sulkily. 

''•  If  that  boy  goes  to  ruin,  you  will  have  no  one 
to  blame  but  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  ill-na- 
turedly. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  are  going  to  make  that 
out,"  returned  his  wife  in  a  voice  quite  as  amiable 
as  that  in  which  he  had  spoken. 

"You  have  no  ijovernment  over  him." 


A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  77 

"I  have  quite  as  much  as  yourself,"  retorted 
Mrs.  Archer. 

"  Humph  !  You  don't  think  so,  do  you  ?" — he 
spoke  in  a  sneering  tone. 

'*•  I  think  just  what  1  say.  If  you  paid  the  least 
attention  to  3^our  children,  they  would  grow  up 
very  differently.  As  it  is,  I  have  no  comfort  with 
them,  and  never  hope  to  have  any.  1  expect  to 
see  them  go  to  ruin." 

"So  I  should  think,  by  the  way  you  let  them 
run.  You  talk  about  my  government  over  them, 
but  I  should  like  to  know  what  I  can  do,  when  I 
am  not  with  them  an  hour  in  the  day.  Whatever 
is  tlic  result,  vou  will  have  only  yourself  to 
blame." 

"That's  just  it.  Instead  of  staying  at  home 
with  your  children,  and  trying  to  make  something 
out  of  them,  you  are  off  every  night  the  dear 
knows  where,  but  after  no  good,  of  course." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  will  you  ?"  Mr.  Archer  gave 
his  wife  an  angry  scowl  as  he  said  this. 

The  wife  felt  little  inclination  to  contend  further. 
There  was  a  brutality  in  her  husband's  tone  and 
manner  that  stunned  her.     She  said  nothing  more. 

While  the  father  and  mother  were  engaged  in  a 
war  of  words,  the  little  boy,  before  mentioned,  was 
amusing  himself  by  spinning  his  spoon  around  in 


78  THE     MOTHER. 

his  plate,  which  made  a  most  annoying  clatter,  and 
served  to  add  to  the  irritation  felt  by  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Archer,  although  the  cause  was  not  noticed 
until  their  contention  was  over. 

"Do  be  quiet,  child,"  said  the  mother,  as  the 
noise  of  the  rattling  spoon  continued  to  fall  upon 
her  ear. 

She  might  as  well  not  have  spoken.  If  any 
change  was  produced  by  her  words,  it  was  an  in- 
creased vigor  in  the  movement  of  the  spoon. 

She  laid  her  hand  upon  the  boy's  head  and  said — 
"Don't  make  that  noise, Bill — you  distract  me." 

The  moment  the  pressure  of  the  hand  was  re- 
moved, like  a  re-acting  spring  the  movement  went 
on  again;  the  noise,  if  any  thing,  louder  than  ever. 
A  vigorous  box  on  the  ear  signified  that  poor  JMrs. 
Archer's  patience  was  exhausted.  Almost  simul- 
taneous with  the  loud  scream  of  the  child  came 
the  loud  bang  of  the  door.  Her  husband  had  pre- 
cipitately left  the  house.  A  state  of  sad,  dreamy 
abstraction  settled  upon  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Archer. 
Although  Bill,  as  the  litde  fellow  was  called,  fairly 
yelled  out  from  passion  and  pain,  she  did  not  hear 
him. 

Jane,  the  cook,  who  was  nursing  the  babe,  wait- 
ed patiently  for  some  time  after  Archer  had  left,  to 
be  called  up  from  the  kitchen.     But  minute  after 


A    STRONG    CONTRAST.  79 

minute  passed,  and  no  summons  came.  It  was 
nearly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  she  ascended  to 
the  dining-room.  She  found  Mrs.  Archer  in  a  state 
of  entire  absent-mindedness,  with  her  head  resting 
on  her  hand — the  little  boy  was  fast  asleep  in  his 
chair. 

The  mother  roused  up  on  the  entrance  of  the 
cook,  and  said — 

"  Here,  Jane,  give  me  the  baby,  and  take  this 
child  up  and  put  iiim  to  bed  before  you  clear  off 
the  table."  The  fair  young  face  and  glowing 
cheeks  of  the  little  boy,  as  Jane  lifted  him  up,  met 
the  mother's  eye.  She  sighed  deeply,  and  again 
fell  into  her  former  dreamy  state. 

In  a  little  while  John  and  Florence  came  in. 
Florence  was  a  sweet-faced  child,  just  nine  years 
okl.  Her  disposition  was  mild,  and  she  was  very 
thoughtful — rendering  her  mother  much  service  in 
her  attentions  to  the  younger  children.  Her  first 
act  was  to  go  up  to  lier  mother  and  kiss  her,  and 
then  kiss  the  babe  that  lay  upon  her  lap. 

'^' Have  you  had  a  pleasant  time,  dear  .'*"  asked 
Mrs.  Archer. 

^••O,  yes,  mother.  I  have  had  a  nice  time. — • 
Grandma  baked  us  a  whole  basket  full  of  cakes, 
which  I  have  brought  home;  and  she  let  me  help 
her.     1  cut  them  all  out.     Where  is   Willy  and 


80  THE    MOTHER. 

Mary  ?■'  she  added,  looking  around.  '^  They  must 
have  some  cakes.  Oh,  dear !  Here's  sis'  fast  asleep 
on  the  floor.  Shall  I  wake  her  up,  mother,  and 
give  her  a  cake  ?" 

'•  No,  dear,  I  wouldn't  wake  her  now.  The  cakes 
will  taste  just  as  good  to  her  in  the  morning." 

"  Where  is  Willy  ?" 

*'  He's  in  bed.     Jane  took  him  up  stairs." 

"Shall  I  hold  the  baby,  while  you  undress 
Mary  .^"  asked  Florence,  as  she  laid  off  her  bonnet 
and  shawl. 

"  Yes,  you  may." 

"•  Dear  liitle  baby  !"  murmured  Florence,  as  she 
took  the  child  from  her  mother's  arms,  and  sat 
down  with  it  upon  a  low  stool. 

'^I  want  some  supper,"  said  John,  pouting  out 
his  lips,  and  looking  as  ugly  and  ill-naiured  as 
possible. 

"  There's  some  bread  and  butter  for  you.  Sit 
down  and  eat  that,  and  then  take  yourself  off  to 
bed,"  replied  his  mother. 

"  I  want  some  tea." 

"  You'll  not  get  any." 

'•  V\\  go  and  ask  Jane  to  give  me  some." 

'•  Take  care,  sir  \  or  you'll  be  sent  off  without  a 
mouthful." 

With  as  bad  a  grace  as  possible,  John  sat  down 


A    STRO.XG    CONTRAST.  81 

upon  the  corner  of  a  chair,  and  commenced  eating. 
The  moment  his  mother  left  the  room  with  Mary 
in  her  arms,  his  hand  was  in  the  su^ar-bowl ;  a 
portion  of  the  contents  of  which  were  freely  laid 
upon  his  bread  and  butter. 

"  If  I  don't  get  tea,  I'll  have  sugar,"  he  said. 

He  was  in  the  act  of  helping  himself  from  the 
sugar-bowl  for  the  third  time,  when  his  mother 
came  in.  The  consequence  was  that  he  got  his 
ears  soundly  boxed,  and  w^as  sent  off  to  bed. 

Florence  continued  to  nurse  the  bai)e,  or  rock  it 
in  the  cradle,  for  an  hour,  when  she  became  too 
sleepy  to  hold  up  her  head.  Kissing  her  mother 
aff(^ctionately,  the  child  said  good  night,  and  went 
off,  alone,  to  her  room,  where  she  undressed  her- 
self and  retired  for  the  night.  But  no  prayer  was 
said — her  mother  had  never  taught  her  this  best  of 
infantile  lessons. 

Mrs.  Archer  sat  up  sew^ing  until  nearly  eleven 
o'clock,  and  then  sought  her  pillow.  As  usual,  her 
husband  had  not  yet  returned.  It  was  past  mid- 
night when  he  came  home. 

Too  many  of  the  evenings  that  were  passed  in 
the  family  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Archer,  were  similar  to 
tlie  one  we  have  described.  The  influence  upon 
the  children  was,  of  course,  bad.  The  evil  quali- 
ties of  mind  they  inherited,  instead  of  being  weak- 


82  THE    MOTHER. 

eiied  and  subdued,  were  quickened  into  a  premature 
activity.  There  was  no  strength  of  principle,  and 
no  order  in  the  mother''s  mind  to  counterbalance 
the  indifference  of  the  father.  Had  she  been  fined 
for  the  high  and  holy  duties  of  a  mother,  she  would 
have  left  a  far  different  impression  upon  her  chil- 
dren's minds  than  she  had  made.  The  good  would 
have  been  developed,  and  the  evil  held  in  a  state 
of  quiescence.  She  would  have  stored  up  in  the 
minds  of  her  children  good  and  true  principles  that 
■\vould  rematn  there,  and  save  them  in  the  day  when 
the  trials  of  mature  life  came. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

31  ORE     COXTRASTS 


Five  more  years  of  patience,  forbearance,  and 
anxious  solicitude  passed,  and  Mrs.  Hartley  be- 
gan to  see  many  good  results  of  her  labor,  espe- 
cially when  she  contrasted  the  habits  and  manners 
of  her  own  children  with  the  habits  and  manners 
of  the  children  of  some  of  her  friends. 

One  of  these  friends,  a  Mrs.  Fielding,  had  four 
children  of  naturally  very  good  disposiiions.    They 


MORC    CONTRASTS.  83 

were  affectionate  to  one  another,  and  seemed  to 
have  more  than  usual  of  a  home  feeling'  about 
them.  The  mother's  fireside  circle  might  have 
been  an  earthly  paradise,  if  she  had  been  at  all  dis- 
posed to  consult  her  children's  good,  instead  of 
her  own  pleasure.  But  this  she  was  not  disposed 
to  do.  She  was  vain,  and  fond  of  company. — 
When  she  had  provided  a  good  nurse  for  her  chil- 
dren, she  thought  that  her  duty  was  done — it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  her  children  needed  a  com- 
panion, such  as  only  she  could  be  to  them,  as 
mucli  as  they  needed  a  nurse  to  provide  for  their 
bodily  comfort. 

This  woman  came  in  to  see  Mrs.  Hartley  one 
day,  and  found  her  sitting  at  the  piano. 

"  What  does  all  this  mean  .'"'  asked  Mrs.  Field- 
ing, in  a  gay  tone.  "  You  playing  the  piano  !  I 
thought  you  had  enough  else  to  do." 

"•  Vm  only  practising  some  new  cotillions  for  the 
children." 

"  What  good  will  your  practising  them  do  the 
children,  I  wonder  ?" 

"A  good  deal,  I  hope.  We  have  a  little  family 
party  among  ourselves  every  Wednesday  evening, 
when  the  children  dance,  and  I  play  for  them." 

"  And  you  practise  for  this  purpose  during  the 
day." 


64  THE    MOTHER. 

"I  practise  just  one  hour  every  Wednesday  for 
this  very  purpose,  and  no  other." 

"You  are  a  queer  woman.  Why  don't  you  let 
Marien  play  while  the  other  children  dance?" 

"  Because  Marien  likes  to  dance  as  well  as  the 
rest  of  them.  And,  more  than  that,  she  is  the  most 
graceful  in  her  movements,  and  the  most  perfect  in 
her  steps,  and  I  want  the  others  to  beneiit  by  her 
superior  accomphshments." 

"Let  their  dancing  master  take  care  of  their 
steps.  It  is  his  business,  and  he  will  do  it  much 
better." 

"The  scliool  will  do  little  good,  Mrs.  Fielding, 
if  it  be  not  seconded  by  a  well  ordered  home  edu- 
cation.    Of  this  1  am  well  satisfied." 

"But  it  is  no  light  task  to  make  home  another 
school-house." 

"••  Home  need  not,  and  should  not  be  such  a 
place.  It  should  leave  its  younger  members  in 
more  freedom  than  school  affords.  But,  what  is 
learned  at  school  from  duty,  should  be  practised  at 
home  from  affection.  Children  ought  to  be  led 
into  the  delightful  exercise  of  the  knowledge  they 
attain,  simultaneously,  if  possible,  with  its  attain- 
ments. This  should  be  their  reward.  As  soon  as 
they  have  mastered  the  rudiments  of  language,  and 
can  read,  entertaining  and  instructive  books  should 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  85 

be  provided  for  them ;  and,  at  every  step  in  their 
progress,  the  means  of  bringing  down  into  activity- 
all  they  learn,  should  be  supplied  to  the  utmost 
extent.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  have  musical 
and  dancing  parties  among  ourselves  every  week, 
and  I  find  it  no  task,  but  a  real  pleasure,  to  play 
for  them,  and,  in  order  to  keep  up  with  the  new 
music,  to  practise  a  few  hours  every  week." 

"  But  how  do  you  find  time  ?  You,  who  are 
such  a  slave  to  your  family !" 

"  If  every  thing  is  done  according  to  a  regular 
system,  we  can  easily  find  time  for  almost  any 
thing." 

"  I  don't  know.  Tou  beat  me  out.  I  do  scarce- 
ly any  thing  in  my  family,  it  seems — and  yet  I  am 
always  hurried  to  death  when  I  do  that  little,  so 
that  it  isn't  more  than  half  done.  As  to  practising 
on  the  piano,  that  is  out  of  the  question." 

Mrs.  Hartley  faintly  sighed. 

'•You  have  four  sweet  children,"  she  said,  after 
a  pause ; — "  I  never  saw  better  dispositions,  natu- 
rally, in  my  life.  You  might  do  any  thing  with 
them  you  pleased." 

"  What  you  say,  a  mother's  partiality  aside,  is 

true,"  replied  Mrs.  Fielding,  with  a  brightening 

face.     "  They  are  all  good  children.     I  only  wish 

I  was  a  better  mother — that  I  was  like  you,  Mrs. 
8 


86  THE    MOTHER. 

Hartley.  J  fear  I  am  too  fond  of  society ;  but  I 
can't  help  it." 

"  Oh,  don''t  say  that,  Mrs.  Fielding.  Love  for 
our  children  should  be  strong  enough  to  make  us 
correct  any  thing  in  ourselves  that  stands  in  the 
way  of  their  good.  A  mother's  duties  ought  to 
take  precedence  over  every  thing  else." 

"I  don't  think  a  mother  ought  to  be  a  slave  to 
her  children." 

"  Willing  servitude  is  not  slavery.  How  can 
you  use  such  a  word  in  connexion  with  a  mother  .'* 
Her  devotion  should  be  from  a  love  that  never 
wearies — never  grows  cold." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  may  be ;  mine  wearies 
often  enough." 

''I  feel  discouraged  sometimes,"  replied  Mrs. 
Hartley.  "  But  my  love  never  abates.  It  grows 
stronger  with  every  new  difficulty  that  is  pre- 
sented." 

''  You  are  one  in  a  thousand,  then ;  that  is  all  I 
can  say.  I  know  a  good  many  mothers,  and  I 
know  tliat  they  all  complain  bitterly  about  the 
trouble  they  have  with  their  children." 

"They  woukl  have  less  trouble,  if  they  loved 
them  more." 

"  How  can  you  make  that  appear  r" 

"  Love  ever  strives  to  benefit  its  object.     A  true 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  87 

love  for  children  prompts  the  mother  to  seek  with 
the  most  self-sacrificing  assiduity,  for  the  means  of 
doing  her  offspring  good." 

"  Oh  dear !  I'm  sadly  afraid  I  am  not  a  true 
mother  then.  It's  no  use  to  disguise  it — I  cannot 
give  up  every  comfort  for  my  children  ;  and  I  don't 
think  we  are  required  to  do  it." 

"  True  love,  Mrs.  Fielding,  sacrifices  nothing, 
when  it  is  in  pursuit  of  its  objects,  for  it  desires 
nothing  so  ardently  as  the  attainment  of  that  ob- 
ject. I  am  not  aware  that  I  give  up  every  comfort; 
I  sometimes,  it  is  true,  deny  myself  a  gratification, 
because,  in  seeking  it,  I  must  neglect  my  children, 
or  interfere  with  their  pleasures  ;  but  I  have  never 
done  this  that  I  have  not  been  more  than  repaid 
for  all  I  thought  I  had  lost." 

"  Well,  that  is  a  comfort.  I  only  wish  I  could 
say  as  much." 

'^  You  would  soon  be  able  to  say  so,  if  you  were 
to  make  sacrifices  for  your  children  from  love  to 
them." 

"  I  think  I  do  love  them." 

"  I  am  sure  of  that,  IMrs.  Fielding.  But,  to  speak 
plainly  as  one  friend  may  venture  to  speak  to  an- 
other, perhaps  you  love  yourself  more." 

"  Perhaps  I  do.  But  how  is  that  to  be  deter- 
mined .^" 


88  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Very  easily.  We  love  those  most  who  occupy 
most  of  our  thoughts,  and  for  whose  comfort  and 
happiness  we  are  most  careful,  whether  it  be  our- 
selves or  our  children." 

Mrs.  Fielding  did  not  reply.  Mentally  she 
applied  the  rule,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge 
that  she  loved  herself  more  than  she  did  her  chil- 
dren. 

The  oldest  boy  of  Mrs.  Fielding  was  about  the 
same  age  of  Clarence.  Having  completed  all  their 
preparatory  studies,  the  two  boys  were  sent  the 
same  year  to  college.  At  the  age  of  sixteen,  they 
left  their  homes  for  the  first  time,  to  be  absent,  ex- 
cept at  short  intervals,  for  three  years.  James 
Fielding  left  home  with  reluctance. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,  mother,"  he  said  the  day 
before  he  was  to  start. 

"Why  not,  James?"  she  asked. 

"  I  would  rather  go  to  school  here.  I  can  learn 
just  as  much." 

"  Yes,  but  think  of  the  honor,  my  son,  of  pass- 
ing through  college.  It  isn't  every  boy  that  has 
this  privilege.  It  will  make  a  man  of  you.  I  hope 
you  will  do  credit  to  yourself  and  your  parents. 
You  must  strive  for  the  first  honors.  Your  father 
took  them  before  you." 

Very  different  was  the  parting  counsel  of  3Irs. 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  89 

Hartley  to  her  son.  The  question  whetlier  it 
would  be  best  in  the  end  to  send  their  son  to  col- 
lege, was  long  and  anxiously  debated  between  the 
father  and  mother.  Many  reasons,  for  and  against, 
were  presented,  and  these  were  scanned  minutely. 
The  strongest  objection  felt  by  them  was  the  fact 
that,  from  the  congregating  together  of  a  large  num- 
ber of  young  men  at  college,  among  whom  would 
be  many  with  loose  principles  and  bad  habits,  there 
would  be  danger  of  moral  contamination.  For  a 
time  they  inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  would  be 
better  not  to  send  their  son  from  home ;  but  their 
anxiety  to  secure  for  him  the  very  best  education 
the  country  afforded,  at  last  determined  them. 

Long  and  earnestly  did  Mrs.  Hartley  commune 
with  her  boy,  on  the  evening  before  his  departure. 

"Never  forget,  my  son,"  she  said,  '•  the  end  for 
which  you  should  strive  after  knowledge.  It  is, 
that  you  may  be  better  able,  by  your  eilbrts  as  a 
man,  to  benefit  society.  A  learned  man,  can  al- 
ways perform  higher  uses  than  an  ignorant  man. 
And  remember,  that  one  so  young  and  so  litlle 
acquainted  with  the  world  as  yourself,  will  be  sub- 
jected to  many  severe  temptations.  But  resist  evil 
with  a  determined  spirit.  Beware  of  the  first  de- 
viation from  right.  Suffer  not  the  smallest  slain 
to  come  upon  your  garments.  Let  your  mother 
8* 


90  THE    MOTHER. 

receive  you  back  as  pure  as  when  you  went  fori!', 
my  son. 

"You  will  discover,  soon  after  you  enter  col- 
lege, a  spirit  of  insubordination — a  disposition  in 
many  of  the  students  to  violate  the  laws  of  the  in- 
stitution;  but  do  not  join  in  with  them.  It  is  just 
as  wrong  for  a  student  to  violate  the  laws  of  col- 
lege, as  it  is  for  a  citizen  to  violate  the  laws  of  his 
country.  They  are  wholesome  regulations,  made 
for  the  good  of  the  whole,  and  he  who  weakens 
their  force  does  a  wrong  to  the  whole.  Guard 
yourself  here,  my  son,  for  here  you  will  be  tempt- 
ed. But  stand  lirm.  If  you  break,  wilfully,  a 
college  law,  your  honor  is  stained,  and  no  subse- 
quent obedience  can  efface  it.  Guard  your  honor 
my  dear  boy !     It  is  a  precious  and  holy  thing. 

*•'  I  will  write  to  you  often,  and  you  must  write 
often  to  me.  Talk  to  me,  in  your  letters,  as  freely 
as  you  would  talk  if  we  were  face  to  face.  Con- 
sider me  your  best  friend,  and  he  who  would 
weaken  my  influence  over  you,  as  your  worst 
enemy.  You  cannot  tell,  my  son,  how  anxious  I 
feel  about  you.  I  know,  far  better  than  you  can 
know,  how  intimately  danger  will  surround  yo;;. 
But,  if  you  will  make  God's  holy  law,  as  written 
in  his  Ten  Commandments,  the  guide  of  your  life, 
you  will  be  safe.     Christian,  in  his  journey  to  the 


MORE    CONTRASTS.  91 

land  of  Canaan,  had  not  a  path  to  travel  in  more 
beset  with  evil  than  will  be  yours,  but  you  will  be 
safe  from  all  harm,  if,  like  him,  you  steadily  resist 
and  fight  against  every  thing  that  would  turn  you 
from  the  straight  and  narrow  way  of  truth  and  in- 
tegrity. You  go  with  your  mother's  blessing  upon 
your  head,  and  your  mother's  prayers  following 
you." 

The  earnestness  with  which  his  mother  spoke, 
affected  the  heart  of  Clarence.  He  did  not  reply, 
but  he  made  a  firm  resolution  to  do  nothing  that 
would  give  her  a  moment's  pain.  He  loved  her 
tenderly ;  for  she  had  ever  been  to  him  the  best 
of  mothers,  and  this  love  was  his  prompter. 

"  I  will  never  pain  the  heart  of  so  good  a  mo- 
ther," he  said,  as  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  pillow 
that  night.  How  different  might  have  been  his 
feelings,  if  he  had  been  raised  under  different  ma- 
ternal influences. 


CHAPTER  X. 


About  the  same  time  that  Clarence  Hartley  was 
sent  to  college,  the  oldest  son  of  Mr.  Archer  was 
sent  to  sea  as  the  last  hope  of  reclaiming  him.  He 
had  been  suffered  to  run  into  all  kinds  of  bad  com- 
pany until  he  was  so  degraded,  that  his  mother 
lost  all  control  over  him.  And  yet,  this  boy  had 
naturally  a  more  obedient  temper  than  Clarence, 
and  could  have  been  managed  far  more  easily.  It 
is  true  that  the  two  mothers  Mere  placed  under 
different  circumstances — nevertheless,  even  the  un- 
happy external  condition  of  Florence  Archer  was 
no  excuse.  If  she  had  truly  loved  her  child,  she 
could  have  brought  an  influence  to  bear  upon  him 
that  would  have  saved  him. 

At  college,  Clarence  found  himself  in  a  new 
world.  At  first,  the  reckless  bearing  and  free  con- 
versation of  some  of  the  students,  surprised  and 
shocked  him.  Soon,  familiarity  with  such  things 
made  them  seem  less  reprehensible.  He  could  not 
onlv  listen  to  them,  but  often  join  heartily  in  the 
92 


FRUIT.  93 

laugh  awakened  by  some  sally  of  ribald  wit. — 
When  alone,  however,  and  the  remembrance  of 
home  arose  in  his  mind,  he  felt  grieved  to  think 
that  he  could  have  taken  pleasure  in  any  thing  that 
would  so  have  shocked  his  mother's  ears. 

He  wrote  home  every  week,  and  wrote  with  all 
the  frankness  of  a  mind  that  had  nothing  to  con- 
ceal Every  letter  was  promptly  answered  by  his 
mother,  and,  in  every  letter  from  her  were  some 
tenderly  urged  precepts  that  ever  came  with  a 
timely  force.  These  were  not  hackneyed  repeti- 
tions of  the  same  forms  that  had  been  enunciated 
time  and  again,  until  all  their  force  was  gone ;  nor 
did  they  come  to  her  son  in  the  shape  of  mere 
didactics.  They  had  an  appropriateness,  a  beauty, 
and  a  force  about  them,  that  ever  inspired  Clarence 
with  a  new  love  of  what  was  morally  excellent. 
If,  at  any  time,  he  felt  inclined  to  enter  the  forbid- 
den grounds  of  pleasure,  where  too  many  of  the 
students  roved,  the  very  next  letter  from  home 
would  win  him  back.  The  love  of  his  mother 
was  about  him,  like  a  protecting  sphere. 

Very  different  was  the  case  with  James  Fielding. 
It  was  not  long  before  his  natural  love  of  com- 
panionship caused  him  to  form  intimate  associa- 
tions with  several  of  the  students  whose  principles 
and  habits  were  not  good.     With  these  he  spent 


94  THE    MOTHER. 

hours  every  night  in  amusements  and  conversations 
by  no  means  calculated  to  elevate  the  tone  of  his 
feelings.  He  made  frequent  efforts  to  induce  Cla- 
rence to  join  them,  who  did  so  for  a  few  times,  but 
for  a  few  times  only.  After  having  spent  an  even- 
ing in  drinking,  smoking  and  card-playing,  inter- 
spersed with  songs  and  conversation  such  as  his 
ears  had  never  before  heard,  he  found,  on  retiring 
to  his  room,  a  letter  upon  his  table  from  his  mo- 
ther. The  sight  of  this  letter  caused  an  instant 
revulsion  in  his  feelings.  He  did  not  open  it  for 
some  time.  The  very  superscription,  in  the  well- 
known  hand-writing  of  his  mother,  seemed  to  re- 
buke him  for  having  felt  pleasure  in  what  would  have 
pained  her  pure  mind  deeply.  When,  at  length,  he 
opened  and  read  the  letter,  it  affected  him  to  tears. 
"■My  dear  Clarence" — it  said — '^  How  much 
we  missed  you  last  night  at  our  family  party. — 
There  were  uMarien,  Henry,  Fanny,  and  Lillian ; 
but  Clarence  was  away.  I  believe  I  thought  much 
oftener  of  my  absent  one,  than  I  did  of  those  who 
were  present.  Henry  accompanied  Marien  at  the 
piano,  on  the  flute,  but  not  so  perfectly  as  you 
used  to  do ;  and  yet  he  plays  very  well  for  one  so 
young.  Fanny  is  improving  rapidly  in  her  music; 
she  performed  for  us  a  very  difficult  overture,  and 
did  it  exceedingly  well.     She  dances,  too,  with  ad- 


FRUIT.  95 

mirable  grace.  How  I  wanted  you  to  see  her  last 
evening.  Dear  little  Lillian  is  always  talking  about 
you,  and  asking  when  you  will  come  home.  She 
grows  sweeter  and  dearer  every  day.  We  had  a 
very  happy  time,  indeed,  as  we  always  have  ;  but 
it  would  have  been  much  happier,  had  not  one 
been  missing. 

"  I  had  a  visit  from  Mrs.  Fielding  yesterday. 
She  says  that  James  has  only  written  to  her  twice 
since  he  has  been  away.  She  asked  me  how  often 
1  heard  from  you  ;  when  I  told  her,  every  few  days, 
she  said  that  if  she  could  hear  from  her  boy  every 
few  weeks  she  would  be  very  glad.  Your  mother 
thanks  you,  Clarence,  for  your  promptness  in 
writing.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  for  me  to  hear  from 
you  often.  How  is  Thomas  Fielding  ?  Is  he 
doing  well  ?  I  wish  he  would  write  home  more 
frequently.  1  thought  his  mother  looked  troubled 
when  she  spoke  of  him." 

Clarence  sighed  .and  lifted  his  eyes  from  the 
letter  on  reading  this  passage.  He  thought  of 
James  Fielding,  and  the  dangerous  ground  upon 
which  he  was  standing,  and  sighed  again  as  he  re- 
sumed the  perusal  of  his  letter.  The  whole  epistle 
came  pure  and  true  from  a  mother's  heart,  and  it 
so  filled  the  mind  of  Clarence  with  images  of  home, 
and  made  that  home  appear  so  like  a  little  heaven, 


00  THE    MOTHER. 

that  he  experienced  a  shuddering  sensation  when 
he  compared  it  with  the  scene  in  which  he  had  so 
lately  been  a  participant. 

'•Thank  God  for  such  a  mother!"  he  could  not 
help  ejaculating,  as  he  read  the  last  line  of  her  let- 
ter. "  Shall  I  ever  cause  her  to  shed  a  tear  c  JN'o 
—never !" 

"  You  went  away  too  soon  last  night,"  said 
James  Fielding  to  him  the  next  morning.  "  We 
had  some  rare  sport  after  you  left,  with  one  of  the 
Professors.  He  guessed  that  all  was  not  right,  and 
came  tapping  at  the  door  about  eleven  o''clock. 
AVe  let  him  in,  and  then  mystified  him  until  he 
was  glad  to  sneak  off,  half  begging  our  pardons  for 
having  suspected  us  of  any  thing  wrong.  Ha!  ha! 
It  was  capital  fun." 

"  I  think  I  staid  quite  long  enough,"  Clarence 
replied,  gravely. 

"  Why  so  r" 

"  1  don't  believe  any  of  us  were  doing  right." 

'-  Indeed  !    Why  not  r" 

'•We  were  doing  what  we  knew  would  not  be 
sanctioned  by  the  Faculty." 

"  I  suppose  we  were.     But  what  of  that  ? 

"  A  good  deal,  I  should  think.  It  is  wrong  to 
violate  any  of  the  rules  and  regulations  of  the  in- 
stitution." 


FRUIT.  97 

"  Humph  !  If  that  is  wrong,  a  good  many  sing 
are  commiited  with  the  passage  of  every  twenty- 
four  hours.  You  are  more  nice  than  wise,  Cla- 
rence. A  little  fun  is  pleasant  at  all  times.  I  go 
in  for  it  myself." 

"  Innocent  fun  is  well  enough.  But  where  it  is 
sought  in  vicious  courses,  it  is  imminently  danger- 
ous. At  the  last,  it  biteth  like  a  serpent  and 
siingeth  like  an  adder.  When  did  you  hear  from 
home,  James  ?" 

"  From  home  ?  Oh,  I'm  sure  I  don't  remember. 
1  was  going  to  say  1  don't  hear  from  there  at  all ; 
but  I  have  had  two  letters  from  mother,  filling  half 
a  page  each." 

'••  Wlien  did  you  write  ?" 

"  About  a  month  ago,  to  say  I  wanted  some 
pocket  money." 

"  I  heard  from  home  last  night." 

"  Ah  !    Got  a  remittance,  I  suppose." 

"  Of  love  from  my  mother,  more  precious  than 
gold  or  silver,"  replied  Clarence  with  some  feeling. 
"  Shq  says  that  your  mother  complains  that  you  do 
not  write  to  her." 

''  Say  to  your  mother,  if  you  please,  that  I  com- 
plain that  my  mother  doesn't  write  to  me.  So  tlie 
account  will  stand  balanced.  I  never  could  write 
a  letter,  except  to  say  I  wanted  something.     And 


98  THE    MOTHER. 

I  suppose  mother  is  like  me.  We  will  excuse  one 
another." 

James  spoke  with  a  levity  that  pained  Clarence. 
He  wanted  to  admonish  him,  but  felt  that,  in  his 
present  mood,  it  would  be  useless. 

During  the  first  year  that  Clarence  was  at  col- 
lege, the  principles  he  had  been  taught  by  his 
mother  became  rules  of  action  with  him.  He  set 
his  face  resolutely  against  every  thing  that  he  con- 
sidered wrong.  James  Fielding,  on  the  contrary,  was 
among  the  most  thoughtless  young  men  in  the  in- 
stitution.   His  wishes  and  passions  were  his  rulers. 

One  day  he  came  to  Clarence  and  said — ■ 

"There  is  to  be  some  sport  in  about  a  week." 

"  Is  there  ?    What  will  it  be  like  ?" 

*'  We  don't  intend  going  to  morning  prayers  until 
seven  o'clock." 

"  But  the  regulations  say  six." 

'"  I  know.  Six  is  too  early,  and  we  are  going  to 
have  it  at  seven." 

"You  did  not  come  here  to  make  laws,  but  to 
observe  them,"  gravely  replied  Clarence. 

'•  We  came  here  to  be  instructed,  not  to  be 
dragged  out  of  bed  to  morning  prayers  before  day 
— not  to  be  bamboozled  about  by  arbitrary  Pro- 
fessors. It  is  a  public  institution,  and  the  Faculty 
have  no  right  to  make  oppressive  laws." 


FRUIT.  99 

"  Jf  any  one  dislikes  these  laws,  let  hirn  go 
home.  It  is  the  only  honest  course.  But  what 
else  is  intended  .'"' 

"  We  intend " 

'''We?  Have  you  really  joined  in  this  con- 
spiracy against  law  and  order  .^" 

"■  Certainly  I  have.  With  the  exception  of  about 
twenty,  every  student  is  pledged  to  go  through 
with  tiie  matter  when  it  is  once  started.  My  duty 
is  to  bring  you  over.  We  wish  to  rise  as  one 
man." 

"  After  you  have  refused  to  attend  morning 
prayers,  what  do  you  propose  doing  ?"" 

"  if  tlie  hour  is  changed  to  seven,  all  well  and 
good.  Nothing  more  will  be  done.  But  if  not, 
our  next  course  will  be  to  attend  regularly  at  six 
for  a  week,  and  scrape  the  chaplain  down." 

"What!" 

"  Completely  drown  his  voice  by  scraping  our 
feet." 

"  You  certainly  are  beside  yourself,  James.  I 
cannot  believe  that  you  would  join  in  doing  so 
wrong  a  deed.  In  this  you  would  not  only  insult 
the  institution,  but  Heaven." 

"  Oh  no.  Heaven  doesn't  have  much  to  do  with 
the  six  o'clock  prayers  of  college  students." 

"  You  speak  with  an  unbecoming  levity,  James." 


100  THE    MOTHER. 

'"■  Do  I  indeed  ?"  The  lip  of  the  boy  slightly 
curled. 

"•  What  else  is  to  be  done  r"  asked  Clarence,  not 
noticing  the  manner  of  his  companion. 

"  All  sorts  of  things.  Every  regulation  of  the 
college  is  to  be  broken,  unless  our  wishes  are  com- 
plied with.  Wait  a  little,  and  you  will  see  fun. 
But  let  me  tell  you — it  is  determined  that  every 
student  who  does  not  join  us,  shall  be  dipped  in 
the  horse-pond.  You  had  better  consent.  I  should 
hate  to  see  any  thing  done  to  you." 

The  eyes  of  Clarence  instantly  flashed,  and  his 
cheeks  grew  red  as  crimson. 

"  I  would  not  consent  if  my  life  were  taken,"  said 
the  high-spirited  boy.  "  But  never  fear.  There  is 
no  one  here  that  dare  lay  his  hands  upon  me." 

"  Don't  trust  to  that.  There  are  those  here  who 
dare  lay  their  hands  upon  any  body,  and  who  will 
do  it  too.     Come,  then,  say  you  will  join  us." 

'^  No — never." 

"  You  will  be  sorry  when  it  is  too  late." 

"  I  have  no  fears." 

On  the  next  day,  the  matter  was  publicly  broach- 
ed during  the  college  recess,  when  the  students 
were  alone. 

"  I  move,"  said  one,  "  that  we  begin  on  the 
morning  after  to-morrow." 


FRUIT.  101 

"  Second  the  motion,"  came  from  three  or  four 
voices. 

"All  who  are  in  favor,  hold  up  your  hands." 

More  than  a  hundred  hands  were  thrown  into 
the  air. 

"  All  who  are  opposed  will  now  hold  up  their 
hands." 

A  deep  silence  followed.  Then  a  single  hand 
was  raised — then  Another,  and  another,  until  ten 
hands  were  seen  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd. — 
It  was  the  hand  of  Clarence  that  first  went  up. 

A  murmur  of  discontent  ran  through  the  body 
of  students,  which  deepened  into  execrations  and 
threats.  Half  a  dozen  who  were  nearest  Clarence 
gathered  round  him,  with  earnest  and  half  angry 
remonstrances.     His  only  reply  was — 

"  It  is  wrong,  and  I  cannot  join  you." 

"  The  regulation  is  oppressive,"  it  was  argued. 

"  Then  leave  the  institution  ;  but  do  not  violate 


ws. 


its  la 

"  That  is  easily  said.  But  others  have  a  word 
in  that  as  well  as  ourselves.  All  here  are  not  ex- 
actly free  to  do  as  they  please." 

"  It  is  better  to  endure  what  seems  oppressive, 
than  to  do  wrong." 

"  We  don't  mean  to  do  wrong  I"  said  several 
voices, 

9* 


103  THE    MOTHER. 

"  You  threaten  to  dip  any  one  in  the  horse-pond 
who  does  not  join  you." 

Several  of  the  students  looked  confused,  but  one 
or  two  cried  out — 

"  Certainly  we  do  ;  and  what  is  more,  our  threats 
shall  be  executed." 

"Right  or  wrong?"  retorted  Clarence,  with  a 
meaning  look  and  voice,  and  turning  on  his  heel, 
walked  away  with  a  firm  step. 

His  manner  and  words  had  their  effect.  He  had 
said  but  little,  but  that  little  caused  several  who 
heard  him  to  think  more  soberly.  In  nearly  every 
little  knot  of  students  that  was  drawn  together  in 
the  various  rooms  that  night,  was  one  or  more  who 
had  become  lukewarm.  A  re-consideration  of  the 
matter  was  moved  on  the  next  day,  and  the  ques- 
tion again  taken.  Instead  of  a  dozen  hands  raised 
in  the  negative,  as  on  the  day  before,  there  were 
now  over  fifty.  From  that  time  little  more  was 
heard  upon  the  subject.  The  revolt  never  took 
place. 

So  much  for  the  influence  of  a  single  well-order- 
ed, honest  mind.  Had  the  natural  disposition  of 
Clarence  been  unchecked,  and  had  no  counter- 
balancing principles  been  stored  up  in  his  mind,  he 
would  have  been  as  eager  for  the  proposed  rebel- 
lion as  the  most  thoughtless.     What  evil  results 


AN    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  J03 

might  have  followed  cannot  be  told.  There  were 
those  in  the  institution  who  did  not  love  him  much 
after  this ;  but  none  who  did  not  feel  for  him  an 
involuntary  respect. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

AN     AGREEABLE     SURPRISE. 

The  incident  just  related  occurred  about  a  year 
and  a  half  after  Clarence  entered  college.  He  had, 
then,  nearly  completed  his  sixteenth  year. 

About  a  week  afterwards,  and  before  they  had 
received  any  communication  from  their  son,  men- 
tioning the  circumstance,  Mr.  Hartley  handed  his 
wife  a  letter.     Its  contents  were  as  follows  : — 

*'  Mr.  James  Hartley. — 

Dear  Sir — As  the  President  of University, 

permit  me  to  express  to  you  my  own  and  the 
thanks  of  the  whole  Faculty.  The  good  and  true 
principles  which  you  have  stored  up  in  the  mind 
of  your  son,  have  saved  us  from  the  evils  of  a  well- 
planned  resistance  of  authority  by  the  students. 
No  persuasions,  we  are  told,  could  induce  him  to 
join  with  the  rest.     Personal  violence  was  threat- 


104  THE    MOTHER. 

ened,  but  this  only  made  him  adhere  more  firmly 
to  his  good  resolution.  The  consequence  was, 
that  his  conduct  opened  the  eyes  of  one  and  an- 
other to  see  the  folly  of  what  they  were  about  to 
do.  Two  parties  were  formed,  and,  before  any 
overt  act,  the  peace  party  prevailed.  We  shall 
ever  remember  your  son  with  admiration  and  grati- 
tude. From  his  first  entrance  into  our  instiiution, 
he  has  been  known  as  the  strict  observer  of  all  its 
rules,  and  a  diligent  student.  It  is  but  just  that  his 
parents  should  know  all  this  from  us.  With  senti- 
ments of  the  highest  respect  and  regard, 
I  am  yours,  Sec, 

P R . 

President  of University. 

Tears  of  joy  gushed  to  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Hartley, 
as  she  finished  the  last  line  of  this  letter. 

"Noble  boy!"  she  said  with  enthusiasm. 

"  You  are  pleased  with  the  letter,  then,"  said  her 
husband,  with  assumed  gravity. 

"  O  yes  !  Are  you  not  r"  and  she  looked  hira  in 
the  face  with  surprise. 

'*  Not  exactly." 

'>  Why  ?" 

"  It  would  have  all  been  well  enough,  if  the  di- 
rection had  not  been  wrong." 


AN    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.     '  105 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  Was  it  not  our  son  that 
acted  so  nobly  ?" 

"  O  yes.  But  the  letter  should  have  been  ad- 
dressed to  you." 

Mrs.  Hartley  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  said — 

"It  is  ail  right. — Are  we  not  one.?  But  what 
would  my  efforts  have  been  without  your  wise 
counsel  to  second  them.  I  will  never  care  for  the 
praise,  so  my  boy  does  right.  That  is  my  sweetest 
reward.  This  is  indeed  a  happy  day.  You  know 
how  much  anxiety  1  have  felt  for  Clarence.  His 
peculiar  temperament  is,  perhaps,  the  hardest  there 
is  to  manage." 

"  And  had  you  not  been  the  most  assiduous  and 
wisest  of  mothers,  you  never  could  have  moulded 
it  into  any  form  of  beauty." 

"  jVIany  an  anxious  day  and  sleepless  night  has  it 
cost  me.  I  sowed  the  seed  in  tears  ;  but  the  dews 
of  heaven  watered  the  earth,  and  when  the  tender 
blade  shot  forth,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness  warmed 
and  strengthened  it.  Oh,  how  often  have  I  felt 
discouraged  !  The  selfishness  of  the  boy  was  so 
strong,  and  he  had  so  little  regard  for  order.  To 
counteract  these,  I  labored  daily,  and  almost  hourly. 
But  I  seemed  to  make  little  progress — sometimes 
all  my  efforts  appeared  fruitless.  Still,  1  perse- 
vered, and  it  has  not  been  in  vain." 


106  THE    MOTHER. 

'•'  0  no.  Tou  have  saved  him  from  his  worst 
enemy,  liimself." 

'*  Henry  is  now  old  enougli  for  college.  What 
sh'dU  we  do  w;th  him  r"  the  mother  said. 

"Send  him  to University  with  his  brother, 

I  suppose.  There  is  not  a  better  institution  in  the 
country." 

"Do  you  think  it  Mill  be  safe  to  send  him  from 
home  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  Why  not  r" 

"  His  disposition  has  changed  little  since  he  was 
a  child.  He  is  still  confiding,  and  easily  led  away 
by  others.  Clarence  had  a  strong  will  and  promi- 
nent faults,  which  could  be  attacked  vigorously  j 
but  the  defects  of  Henry's  character  were  hard  to 
reach.  I  have  thought  much  on  ihe  subject  of 
sending  him  to  college,  but  feel  more  and  more  re- 
luctant to  do  so  the  nearer  the  time  comes  for 
making  a  decision  on  the  subject." 

"  We  ought  not  to  deprive  him  of  the  advantages 
of  a  good  education.  He  should  stand  side  by  side 
with  his  brother  in  this  respect." 

"  True.  But  cannot  \Ye  give  him  all  these  ad- 
vantages at  a  less  risk." 

"  I  know  of  no  institution  in  this  city  where  the 
same  advantages  may  be  secured  as  at ." 

"  I  believe  there  is  none.     But,  should  we  look 


AN  AGR.LEABLE  SURPRISE.         107 

alone  at  this  ?  Will  oar  child  be  safe  there  ?  Is 
his  character  yet  decided  enough  for  us  to  trust 
him  from  our  side  ?  I  think  not.  The  frankness 
with  which  Clarence  has  written  to  us  of  the  va- 
rious temptations  that  have  assailed  him  from  time 
to  time,  has  opened  my  eyes  to  the  dangers  that 
must  encompass  a  boy  like  Henry  in  such  a  place. 
I  should  not  feel  happy  a  moment  were  he  to  go 
there." 

"  Then  he  must  not  go,"  said  Mr.  Hartley,  firmly. 
"You  have  ever  been  a  true  mother  to  our  chil- 
dren, and  your  love  has  thus  far  led  you  to  deter- 
mine wisely  in  regard  to  them.  Though  I  must 
own  that  I  feel  very  reluctant  to  deprive  the  boy 
of  the  advantages  of  a  thorough  college  course 
of  instruction," 

"Have  not  my  reasons  force  in  your  mind?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hartley.  "  Do  you  not  believe  that  it 
would  be  wrong  for  us  to  jeopardize  the  spiritual 
interests  of  our  cliild,  in  the  eager  pursuit  of  intel- 
lectual advantages." 

"I  certainly  do.  The  latter  should  only  be  for 
tlie  sake  of  the  former.  The  intellect  should  be 
cultivated  as  the  means  of  developing  the  moral 
powers,  that  both  in  union  may  act  in  life  with 
true  efficiency.  If  all  the  higher  objects  of  educa- 
tion can  be  secured  by  keeping  our  child  at  home, 


108  THE    MOTUER. 

we  ought  not,  under  any  circumstance?,  to  send 
him  away." 

"They  may  often  be  better  secured  away  from 
home,  if  the  boy  have  firmness  enough  to  resist  the 
temptations  that  will  assail  him.  But  tiie  question 
whether  the  boy  can  so  resist,  must  be  decided  by 
the  parents  before  he  is  sent  out  to  make  his  first 
trial  on  the  world-arena," 

"My  own  feeling  is,  that  we  had  better  keep 
Henry  under  our  guidance  as  long  as  it  can  be 
done.  He  is  not  a  boy  with  the  quick  intellect  of 
Clarence,  and  will,  probably,  never  be  ambitious  to 
jngve  in  a  sphere  where  the  highest  attainments 
are  required.  It  would  be  much  more  agreeable 
to  him  now  to  go  to  work  in  your  store  than  to 
go  to  school." 

"  And  I  shall  not  grieve  over  his  choice  of  a 
pursuit  in  life,  if  he  should  prefer  the  calling  of  a 
merchant." 

"  Nor  I.  Active  employment  is  the  best  for  all, 
and  in  choosing  a  profession  in  life,  that  should 
always  be  chosen  M'hich  will  give  the  mind  great 
activity,  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  brings  in  the 
affections  also.  The  pursuit  of  any  calling  which 
a  man  does  not  like,  can  never  result  to  his  own 
and  the  public  advantage  in  so  high  a  degree  as  it 
would  were  his  heart  in  w^hat  he  was  doing.     For 


AiV    AGREEABLE    SURPRISE.  109 

this  reason,  we  ought  to  be  governed  very  much, 
in  tleciding  for  our  children,  by  their  fitness  for  and 
preference  for  a  pursuit  in  business." 

"•  Children's  preferences,  however,  do  not  always 
arise  from  any  peculiar  fitness  in  themselves,  but 
often  from  caprice." 

"It  is  the  business  of  a  wise  parent  to  discrimi- 
nate between  a  natural  fitness  for  a  thing,  and  a 
fleeting  preference  for  it.  The  imagination  of 
young  persons  is  very  active,  and  apt  to  throw  a 
false  light  around  that  upon  which  it  dwells," 

Many  conversations  of  a  like  nature  were  held 
by  iVIr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,  who  finally  came  to  the 
determination  to  keep  Henry  at  home.  The  boy 
was  disappointed  at  this.  He  wanted  to  go  to 
college ;  not,  the  parents  could  easily  enough  see, 
for  the  sake  of  the  superior  advantages  there  to  be 
obtained,  but  because  his  imagination  had  thrown 
a  peculiar  charm  about  a  college  life." 

Before  making  a  final  decision  on  the  subject, 
Mrs.  Hartley  thought  it  right  to  bring  Clarence  into 
their  confidence.  She  wrote  him  a  long  letter  on 
the  subject,  and  asked  him  to  give  his  opinion  of 
the  effect  that  would  be  produced  upon  a  boy  like 
Henry,  if  introduced  among  the  students.  "  You 
know  his  disposition,"  she  said,  "and  how  he 
10 


110  THE    MOTHER. 

would  he  aflected  by  the  kind  of  associations  into 
which  he  would  be  thrown." 

Clarence  wrote  back  immediately,  that  he  did 
not  believe  it  would  be  good  for  Henry  to  be  ex- 
posed to  the  temptations  of  a  college  life.  "  He  is 
too  easily  led  away  by  others,"  he  remarked.  "  I 
have  noticed  more  than  a  dozen  instances,  since  I 
have  been  here,  of  boys  just  like  Henry,  who  were 
innocent  and  confiding  in  their  dispositions  when 
they  came,  who  soon  became  so  changed  that  it 
made  me  sad  to  think  about  it.  There  was  one 
boy  in  particular.  His  mother  came  with  hnn 
when  he  first  entered  college.  She  appeared  to  be 
deeply  attached  to  him,  and  he  to  her — they  both 
wept  bitterly  at  parting.  She  was  a  widow,  and 
he  her  only  remaining  child,  upon  whom  all  her 
care,  affection  and  pride  were  lavished.  He  soon 
made  friends,  for  all  seemed  drawn  towards  him. 
Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  boy,  between  whom 
and  himself  the  warmest  attachment  arose,  was  as 
unlike  him  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine.  He  was  a 
bold,  bad  boy — full  of  life,  and  ready  to  do  almost 
any  thing  that  a  reckless  spirit  prompted.  In  a 
little  while,  they  were  inseparable  companions. 
At  the  end  of  six  months,  the  spirit  of  the  one 
seemed  to  have  been  transfused  into  that  of  the 
other.     I  almost  wonder,  sometimes,  if  the  mother 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  Ill 

would  know  her  son  were  ihey  to  meet  unex- 
pectedly. I  hope  you  will  not  send  Henry  here. 
He  might  pass  through  his  course  uncontaminated, 
\ut  I  think  it  would  be  dangerous  to  expose  one 
like  him  to  so  many  temptations." 

This  letter  fully  decided  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GOING     INTO     COMPANY. 

Marien  was  in  her  eighteenth  year,  and  yet  she 
had  been  taken  into  company  by  her  parents  but 
very  little.  Her  virtues  were  all  of  a  domestic 
character,  and  graced  the  home  circle.  She  knew 
of  little  beyond  its  pleasant  precincts.  Few  who 
saw  her,  supposed  that  she  was  over  fifteen  years 
of  age.  Not  that  her  mind  was  unmatured,  but 
because  her  appearance  was  girlish,  and  her  man- 
ners simple  and  unaffected,  yet  retiring  when  stran- 
gers were  present. 

"  How  old  is  Marien  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Fielding,  who 
had  called  in  one  morning  to  chat  away  half  an  hour 
with  Mrs.  Hartley.     Marien  had  just  left  the  room. 

"  In  her  eighteenth  year,"  was  replied. 


112  THE    MOTHER. 

'••  Nearly  eighteen  !     Bless  me  ! — it  cannot  be." 

''  Yes.     Thai  is  her  age." 

"  I  never  would  have  believed  it.  Why,  she 
looks  more  like  a  girl  of  thirteen  or  fourteen." 

"  I  don't  know.  She  doesn't  seem  so  very  young 
to  me." 

"But  why  in  the  worh]  do  you  keep  the  poor 
thing  back  so  ?  Slie  should  have  been  introduced 
into  company  two  years  ago.  I  had  no  idea  that 
she  was  so  old." 

Mrs.  Fielding  had  a  daughter  only  in  her  seven- 
teenth year,  who  had  been  flourishing  about  at  all 
t}\e  balls  and  parties  for  the  past  two  seasons,  and 
had  now  all  the  silly  airs  and  affectations  which 
a  young  miss,  under  such  circumstances,  might  be 
expected  to  acquire.  Jane  Fielding  had  met  Marien 
several  times,  on  calling  at  Mrs.  Hartley's  with  her 
mother,  but,  imagining  her  to  be  a  mere  child,  in 
comparison  with  herself,  she  had  treated  her  as 
such.  Marien  was  never  pushed  forward  by  her 
mother,  and,  therefore,  the  mistake  of  Mrs.  Field- 
ing and  her  daughter  was  not  corrected,  by  their 
own  observation. 

"  There  is  plenty  of  time  yet,"'  said  3Irs.  Hart- 
ley, in  reply  to  the  remark  of  her  visiter.  "  Ten 
young  ladies  go  into  company  too  early,  where 
one  goes  in  too  late." 


GOLVG    Ii\TO    COMPANY.  113 

"  I  doubt  that.  If  you  don't  take  your  daughter 
into  polished  society  early,  she  will  never  acquire 
that  grace  and  ease  of  manner  so  beautiful  and  so 
essential." 

Involuntarily  did  Mrs.  Hartley  compare,  in  her 
own  mind,  the  forward,  chattering,  flirting  Jane 
Fielding  with  her  own  modest  child,  in  whom  all 
the  graces  of  a  sweet  spirit  shone  with  a  tempered 
yet  beautiful  lustre. 

"  I  am  more  anxious  that  my  daughter  shall  be 
a  true  woman,  when  she  arrives  at  woman's  age, 
than  an  artificial  woman,  while  a  mere  child,"  she 
could  not  help  replying. 

"  A  very  strange  remark,"  said  Mrs.  Fielding. 

"And  yet  it  expresses  my  views  on  the  subject." 

'^  I  should  hardly  think  you  had  reflected  much 
about  it,  and  was  merely  acting  from  some  anti- 
quated notion  put  into  your  head  by  Aunt  Mary." 

"  You  err  there  very  much,  Mrs.  Fielding.  Since 
the  birth  of  my  daughter,  the  attainment  of  the  best 
means  for  securing  her  happiness  has  been  with  me 
a  source  of  deep  reflection.  I  have  brought  to  my 
aid  the  observations  of  my  youth  and  mature  years. 
What  I  have  seen  in  real  life  confirms  my  rational 
deductions.  I  am  well  satisfied  that  it  injures  a 
young  girl  to  throw  her  into  company  early.  It  is 
from  this  conviction  that  I  act." 
10* 


114  THE    3IOTHER. 

"How  can  it  injure  her?  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
know," 

"  It  injures  her  in  every  thing,  I  was  going  to 
say." 

"  Name  a  single  particular." 

"It  puts  a  woman's  head  upon  a  girl's  shoul- 
ders, to  use  a  common  saying,  while  she  lacks  the 
strength  to  carry  it  steadily,  but  tosses  the  feathers 
with  which  it  is  dressed  into  every  body's  face  that 
she  meets." 

"  O  dear !    What  a  queer  idea." 

"  And  not  only  that,  Mrs.  Fielding ;  it  exposes 
her,  before  she  has  the  inielligence  to  discriminate 
accurately  between  the  true  and  the  false,  to  the 
danger  of  forming  a  wrong  estimate  of  life  and  its 
duties — of  being  carried  away  by  a  love  of  dress 
and  show  and  mere  pleasure  taking,  while  things 
of  infinitely  more  importance  are  seen  in  an  ob- 
scure light,  and  viewed  as  of  little  consequence. 
The  manners  of  a  girl  who  has  gone  into  company 
too  early  are  always  offensive  to  me.  There  is  a 
pertness  about  her  that  I  cannot  bear — a  toss  of  the 
head,  a  motion  of  the  body,  an  affected  distortion 
of  the  countenance,  (I  can  call  it  nothing  else,)  that 
is  peculiarly  disagreeable." 

•'•  You  see  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do,  that  is  all 
I  can  say,  Mrs.  Hartley,"  replied  Mrs.  Fielding,  a 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  115 

little  gravely.  She  had,  that  very  morning,  fell 
called  upon  to  rebuke  Jane  for  the  rude  forwardness 
of  her  manners  in  company  the  evening  previous  ! 

"Perhaps  I  have  thought  more  on  the  subject 
and,  in  consequence,  observed  more  closely." 

"  I  don't  know  how  that  is — perhaps  so" — was 
the  visiter's  rather  cold  reply. 

A  new  subject  of  conversation  was  then  started. 
Vv'hile  they  still  sat  conversing,  Marien,  who  had 
gone  out  to  attend  to  something,  came  in  with  little 
Lillian  by  the  hand,  now  just  five  years  old.  Mrs. 
Fielding  looked  into  her  face  with  a  new  interest, 
observed  her  words  closely,  and  watched  every 
motion.  Involuntary  respect,  and  even  admiration, 
were  elicited.  There  was  something  innocent  and 
like  a  child  about  her,  and  yet  this  was  so  blended 
with  a  womanly  grace  when  she  conversed,  that, 
in  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not  help  contrasting 
her  manner  with  the  forward,  familiar  airs  of  her 
own  daughter. 

As  Lillian  did  not  seem  very  well,  and  was  dis- 
posed to  be  fretful,  Marien  soon  took  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  Mrs.  Hartley  and  Mrs.  Fielding  were 
again  left  alone. 

^'  I  declare,  Mrs.  Hartley,"  said  the  latter,  "  it  is 
a  shame  to  keep  that  girl  back  as  you  do.  "  It  is 
unjust  to  her.     She  would  shine  in  company." 


116  THE    MOTHER. 

"  I  have  110  wish  to  see  her  shine.  To  attract 
much  attention  is  always  to  be  in  a  dangerous  po- 
sition for  one  so  young  and  inexperienced.  Be- 
sides, when  she  does  shine,  as  you  say,  I  wish  it 
to  be  with  a  steady  and  enduring  light — not  with 
flickering  glare,  dazzling  but  evanescent.  Next 
winter  we  intend  taking  her  into  company  for  a 
few  times,  and,  after  that,  introducing  her  to  a  more 
extended  but  select  circle  of  acquaintances.  What 
we  wish  most  to  guard  against,  is  the  danger  of 
her  forming  an  attachment  too  early.  We  wish 
her  heart  to  be  free  until  her  reason  is  matured, 
and  her  judgment  formed  upon  a  basis  of  true  prin- 
ciples. If  you  expose  a  young  girl  in  fashionable 
society  to  the  love-gossip  so  prevalent  there  among 
certain  portions  of  it,  you  injure  her  almost  inevi- 
tably. If  she  even  make  a  good  marriage  after- 
wards, it  will  be  little  more  than  a  happy  accident." 

"  I  cannot  understand  why." 

"■  The  fact  is  notorious.  A  good  husband  is  one 
who  marries  from  correct  views  of  marriage  \  and 
he  will  take  good  care  that  his  wife  is  not  one  of 
the  puppet- women  with  whom  he  has  chattered 
and  gossipped  in  the  fashionable  drawing-room. 
O  no!  He  must  have  more  sober  and  enduring 
qualities.  The  wife  and  mother,  the  nurse  in  sick- 
ness, the  companion  of  a  whole  life  will  never  be 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  117 

c}io?en  by  a  sensible  man  from  one  of  these.  He 
will  see  in  the  quiet,  thoughtful  maiden,  charms 
more  potent,  and  at  her  shrine  will  he  ofTer  up  the 
pure  devotion  of  an  honest  heart." 

Mrs.  Hartley's  visiter  did  not  feel  very  well 
pleased  with  herself  or  her  daughter  for  some  days 
after  this  conversation.  There  was  so  nmch  of 
truth  about  what  had  been  said,  and  truth  bearing 
upon  her  own  conduct  as  a  mother,  that  it  made 
her  uncomfortable.  But  it  was  too  late  for  her  to 
mend — the  evil  was  already  done.  The  more  she 
thought  about  the  picture  Mrs.  Hartley  had  drawn 
of  a  puppet- woman,  as  she  had  chosen  to  call  her, 
the  more  closely  did  she  perceive  that  her  own 
daughter  resembled  the  sketch,  until  she  felt  half 
angry  at  what  appeared  almost  too  pointed  an 
allusion. 

The  next  time  that  Mrs.  Fielding  and  daughter 
called  upon  Mrs.  Hartley,  the  latter  paid  a  much 
more  respectful  attention  to  Marien  than  she  had 
ever  before  done.  She  was  surprised  to  find,  in  one 
she  had  looked  upon  as  a  gu'l  too  young  for  her 
to  associate  with,  a  quiet  dignity  of  manner  and 
womanly  tone  of  character  beyond  what  she  had 
dreamed  existed.  At  first  she  rattled  on  with  her 
in  quite  a  patronizing  way,  but  before  she  left,  she 
was  rather  inclined  to  listen  than  to  talk. 


118  THE    MOTHER. 

''While  our  mammas  are  talking,  let  us  have 
some  music,"  Jane  said,  during  a  pause  in  the  con- 
versation.    "  Are  you  fond  of  playing  ?" 

"  I  am  fond  of  music,  and  always  like  good 
playing.  Come  to  the  piano — you  play  well,  I 
understand.  1  shall  enjoy  your  performance  very 
much." 

Jane  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  rattled  off  seve- 
ral fashioiable  frivolities,  in  a  kind  of  hap-hazard 
style.  3Iarien  was  disappointed,  and  did  not,  for 
she  could  not,  praise  the  young  lady's  playing. 
She  had  learned  only  to  speak  what  she  thought, 
and  when  she  could  not  praise,  and  utter  the  truth, 
she  said  nothing. 

'•  Play  something  else,"  she  said. 

Jane  turned  over  the  music  books  and  selected 
an  overture  that  required  a  brilliant  performer  to 
execute  it  with  any  thing  like  its  true  effect.  On 
this  she  went  to  work,  with  might  and  main,  and 
got  through  in  about  ten  minutes,  much  to  the  re- 
lief of  Marien,  whose  line  perception  of  musical 
harmonies  was  terribly  outraged. 

"Now  you  must  play,"  said  Jane,  as  she  struck 
the  last  note,  rising  from  the  instrument. 

Marien  sat  down  and  let  her  fingers  fall  upon  the 
keys,  that  answered  to  their  touch  as  if  half  con- 
scious. 


GOING    INTO    COMPANY.  119 

"  Yon  play  divinely !"  exclaimed  Jane,  after 
Marien  had  played  a  short  piece  of  music  with  fine 
taste.     "Do  you  sing.?" 

"  Sometimes." 

"  Can  you  sing  '  The  Banks  of  the  Blue  Mo- 
selle ?'  " 

"  I  believe  so."  Marien  ran  her  fingers  over  the 
keys,  and  then  warbled  that  sprightly  song  in  a 
low,  sweet  voice,  that  really  charmed  her  com- 
panion. The  ease  with  which  this  was  done  sur- 
prised Jane.  It  seemed  to  cost  Marien  scarce  an 
effort.  Haifa  dozen  otlier  songs  were  named,  and 
sung  by  Marien,  who  then  asked  Jane  if  she  would 
not  sing. 

"  Not  after  you,"  replied  the  young  lady,  taking 
a  step  back  from  the  piano. 

Marien  did  not  know  how  to  reply  to  such  a  re- 
mark, and  so  she  said  nothing.  She  could  not  lavish 
false  compliments,  nor  did  she  wish  to  jnake  any 
allusion  to  her  own  performance.  She  had  sung 
to  please  her  visiter,  and  had  not  a  thought  beyond 
that. 

Mrs.  Fielding  was  less  self-satisfied  than  ever  after 
this  visit.  She  could  not  but  acknowledge  to  her- 
self, that  she  would  much  rather  her  daughter 
were  more  like  Marien. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A     P  A  I  X  F  U  L     B  E  R  E  A  V  E  M  E  .\  T . 

Thus  far  in  her  maternal  life,  Mrs.  Hartley  had 
endured  all  the  pains,  cares,  anxieties,  hopes  and 
fears  of  a  mother,  but  neither  sorrow  nor  bereave- 
ment. Her  assiduous  care  had,  thus  far,  been  re- 
warded by  the  very  best  results.  But  now  there 
came  a  lieart-searching  trial,  which  no  act  of  hers 
could  possibly  prevent. 

On  the  day  that  Mrs.  Fielding  and  her  daugliter 
called  upon  Mrs.  Hartley,  Lillian  did  not  seem  very 
well.  She  drooped  about,  and  was  quite  fretful, 
a  thing  with  her  very  unusual.  At  night  she  fell 
off  to  sleep  an  hour  earlier  than  usual.  When  Mr. 
Hartley  came  home,  and  inquired  for  his  little  pet, 
he  was  told  that  she  was  in  bed.  He  loved  the 
child  with  great  tenderness,  and  missed  her  bright 
face  and  merry  voice.  Taking  up  a  light,  he  went 
over  to  the  chamber  where  she  slept,  and  stood 
over  her  little  bed  for  some  time,  looking  down 
upon  her  sweet  face.  While  doing  so,  Mrs.  Hart- 
ley joined  him. 
120 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  121 

"Dear  little  thing,"  she  said,  "she  has  not  ap- 
peared well  all  day." 

The  father  placed  his  hand  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Why,  Anna,"  he  said,  "  she  has  a  high  fever ! 
And  listen  !  how  hard  she  breathes." 

Mrs.  Hartley  laid  her  hand  against  the  child's 
cheek,  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness.  Her  children 
had  often  been  sick  with  fevers ;  but  never,  in  the 
incipient  stage  of  the  disease,  had  she  felt  the  pe- 
culiar sensation  of  uneasiness  and  oppression  that 
followed  the  discovery  that  Lillian  was  really  sick. 

In  a  little  while  the  tea  bell  rung,  and  the  family 
gathered  around  the  table  to  partake  of  their  even- 
ing meal.  The  father  and  mother  felt  no  appetite* 
and  merely  sipped  their  tea.  Marien  was  silent 
from  some  cause.  Henry  and  Fanny  were  the 
only  ones  who  had  any  thing  to  say.  On  rising 
from  the  table,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley  repaired  to 
the  chamber  to  look  at  Lillian  again.  The  child's 
fever  seemed  higher,  and  she  had  become  restless. 
She  coughed  occasionally,  and  there  was  much 
oppression  on  her  chest. 

'■'•  I  think  we  had  better  call  in  the  Doctor,"  said 
Mr.  Hartley. 

"  It  may  only  be  a  temporary  indisposition, 
that  will  subside  before  morning,"  remarked  the 
mother. 

11 


122  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Still,  it  is  better  to  be  frightened  than  hurt," 
returned  Mr.  Hartley. 

"True.     But  suppose  we  wait  for  an  hour." 

At  the  expiration  of  an  hour  the  child  was  no 
better.  A  physician  was  called  in,  who  gave  some 
simple  medicine,  and  said  he  would  call  in  the 
morning.  The  morning  found  the  child  very  ill. 
What  form  the  disease  would  ultimately  assume, 
the  doctor  could  not  tell ; — it  might  be  only  a  vio- 
lent catarrh,  it  might  be  some  more  malignant  dis- 
ease. A  sudden  gloom  fell  over  the  whole  house- 
hold, such  as  had  never  been  felt  before.  The 
mother  could  not  compose  herself  to  do  any  thing 
— Marien  sat  by  the  child's  bedside  nearly  all  the 
time,  and  Mr.  Hartley  came  home  two  or  three 
times  during  the  day.  What  alarmed  them  most 
of  all  was  the  constant  com.plaints  of  Lillian  that 
her  throat  pained  her,  and  the  admission  of  the 
doctor  that  it  was  highly  inflamed.  Even  hours 
before  the  physician  declared  the  disease  to  be 
scarlet  fever,  they  were  more  than  half  assured  that 
it  was  nothing  else. 

On  the  third  day,  all  their  fears  were  con- 
firmed. The  disease  began  to  assume  its  worst 
type.  The  skin  was  red  and  tumefied,  the  throat 
badly  ulcerated,  and  the  face  much  swollen. — 
Breathing  was  exceedingly  difficult,  and  there  was 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  123 

an  eruption  of  dark  scarlet  spots  on  the  face,  neck 
and  chest.  On  the  fifth  day,  the  little  sufferer  be- 
came delirious— on  the  seventh  day  she  was  freed 
from  her  pain.  Her  pure  spirit  returned  to  llie 
God  who  gave  it. 

Suddenly  as  this  terrible  affliction  had  fallen 
upon  them,  in  the  brief  space  that  ensued  between 
the  ilhiess  of  tha  child  and  her  removal,  the  minds 
of  the  parents  had  become,  in  some  degree,  pre- 
pared for  the  result  that  followed.  Still  the  blow 
stunned  them,  and  it  was  not  until  called  upon  to 
take  the  last  look  at  their  little  one,  and  to  touch 
with  their  lips  for  the  last  time  her  snowy  fore- 
head, that  they  realized  the  full  consciousness  of 
what  they  had  lost.  Ah  !  who  but  they  who  love 
tenderly  a  sweet,  innocent,  affectionate  child,  can 
understand  how  deep  was  the  anguish  of  their  spirits 
at  the  moment  when  they  turned  away  after  taking 
their  last,  lingering  look  at  the  marble  features  of 
their  departed  Lillian. 

How  desolate  seemed  every  part  of  the  house 
for  days  afterwards.  Hard  as  tlie  mother  tried  to 
bear  up  and  to  look  up  in  this  aflliction,  she  had 
not  the  power  to  dry  her  tears.  For  hours,  some- 
times, she  would  sit  in  dreamy  absent-mindedness, 
all  interest  in  things  surrounding  her  having  totally 
subsided. 


124  THE    MOTHER. 

"  Dear  Anna."  her  husband  ventured  to  say  to 
her  one  dav,  when  he  came  home  and  found  her 
in  this  state — '•'•  Time,  the  Restorer,  cannot  do  his 
work  for  us,  unless  we  do  our  part.  You  remem- 
ber Doctor  T ,  in  whose  family  we  spent  two 

pleasant  weeks  last  summer.  He  had  a  son,  just 
about  the  age  of  Clarence — perhaps  two  years 
older — who  had  just  passed  through  his  collegiate 
course  with  distinguished  honors.  The  Doctor 
loved  that  boy  with  more  than  ordinary  tenderness. 
'  He  was  always  a  good  boy,'  he  said  to  me,  in 
alluding  to  his  son.  '  His  love  of  truth  was  strong, 
and  his  sense  of  honor  most  acute.  I  not  only 
loved  him,  but  I  was  proud  of  him.'  This  son 
had  not  been  home  long,  when  he  became  ill,  and 
died.  '•I  never  had  any  thing  in  my  whole  life 
that  gave  me  such  anguish  of  spirit  as  the  death 
of  that  boy,'  he  said,  and  his  voice  even  then  trem- 
bled. '  But,  through  the  whole  painful  scene  of 
sickness,  death  and  burial,  I  never  missed  a  pa- 
tient. I  knew  that  there  was  only  one  thing  that 
would  sustain  me  in  my  affliction  ;  and  that  was, 
the  steady  and  faithful  performance  of  my  regular 
duties  in  life.  But  for  this,  1  sometimes  think  I 
could  not  have  borne  the  weight  that  was  then 

laid  upon  me.'     Dear  Anna  !  Doctor  T was  a 

true  philosoplier;    for  his   was  a  high   Christian 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  125 

philosophy,  that  sought  relief  from  affliction  in  the 
performance  of  duty  to  others." 

Poor  Mrs.  Hartley  wept  bitterly  while  her  hus- 
band was  speaking.  But  his  words  sunk  into  her 
heart,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  suffering  severer 
pain  than  would  have  been  her  portion  if  she  had 

acted  hke  Doctor  T .     From    that  time  she 

strove,  with  a  great  effort,  to  arouse  herself  from 
the  dreamy  state  into  which  she  had  fallen.  It 
was  difficult  to  perform  all  the  duties — nay,  she 
could  not  perform  them  all— that  heretofore  claim- 
ed her  attention.  For  five  years  her  daily  thought 
and  care  had  been  for  her  youngest  born,  the 
nursling  of  the  flock;  and  now  she  was  taken 
away.  For  a  time  she  struggled  to  act  upon  her 
husband's  suggestion,  but  again  sunk  down;  and 
efforts  to  elevate  her  from  this  state  of  gloomy  de- 
pression were  again  made.  She  lay  weeping,  with 
her  head  upon  her  husband's  bosom,  one  night, 
when  he  said — 

"•Anna,  dear,  would  you  like  to  have  Lillian 
back  again  .^" 

She  did  not  reply,  but  sobbed  more  violently  for 
nearl}'-  a  minute,  and  then  grew  calm.  Her  hus- 
band repeated  his  inquiry. 

"  I  have  never  asked  myself  that  question,"  she 
answered. 
11* 


126  THE     MOTHER. 

"  Think  now,  and  determine  in  your  own  mind, 
whether,  if  you  had  tlie  power  to  recall  her,  you 
would  do  so." 

"  I  do  not  think  I  would,"  was  murmured  half 
reluctantly. 

"  Why  not  ?" 

"  It  is  better  for  her  to  remain  where  she  is." 

"Do  you  really  think  so  r" 

"  How  can  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  Is  she 
not  now  safe  in  her  heavenly  home?  Is  she  not 
loved  and  cared  for  by  angels  .''  She  can  have  no 
pain,  nor  grief,  where  she  is  gone.  She  has  es- 
caped a  life  of  trial  and  sorrow.  Ah,  my  dear 
husband,  even  in  my  affliction  I  can  say,  I  am 
thankful  that,  with  her,  life's  toilsome  journey  is 
over — that  her  probation  has  been  short." 

"  Spoken  like  my  own  dear  wife,"  Mr.  Hartley 
said  with  emotion.  -*  I,  too,  grieve  over  the  loss, 
with  a  grief  that  words  cannot  express,  but  1  would 
not  take  back  the  treasure,  now  safely  laid  up  in 
heaven.  She  cannot  return  to  us,  but  we  will  go 
to  her.  Our  real  home  is  not  here.  A  short  time 
before  us  has  our  child  gone  ;  we  will  soon  follow 
after,  but  not  until  all  the  duties  we  owe  to  others 
are  paid.  We  have  still  four  left,  and,  do  our  best, 
we  cannot  do  too  much  for  them." 

"  Too  much !     Oh,  no  ;  my  constant  regret  is 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  127 

that  I  do  too  little.  And  now  that  Lillian  has  been 
taken  away,  I  seem  to  have  lost  the  power  to  do 
even  that  little." 

'*  Strive  to  think  more  of  those  that  are  left,  than 
of  the  one  that  is  gone.  No  effort  of  yours  can 
do  her  any  good,  but  every  effort  you  make  for 
those  that  still  remain,  will  add  to  their  happiness. 
Yesterday,  when  1  came  home,  I  found  Fanny  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  parlor.  She  looked  very  sad. 
'  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ?'  I  asked.  ^  Mother 
cries  so,  and  don't  talk  to  me  like  she  did,'  she 
said,  the  tears  coming  into  her  dear  little  eyes." 

"Oh,  James,  did  she  say  that  .^" 

"  Yes,  dear.  And  if  you  could  have  seen  her 
face,  and  heard  the  tone  of  her  voice,  you  would 
have  grieved  to  think  how  sad  the  child's  heart 
must  be.  She,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  us,  have  lost 
much  in  the  death  of  Lillian.  You  know  how 
much  she  loved  the  child." 

"  And  I,"  sobbed  the  mother,  "  have  left  her  to 
bear  her  grief  alone.  Alas !  How  selfish  I  have 
been  in  my  sorrow.  But  it  shall  no  longer  be. 
I  will  meet  my  children  as  a  mother  should  meet 
them.     1  will  help  them  to  bear  their  loss." 

Mrs.  Hartley  met  her  family  on  the  next  morn- 
ing with  a  calmer  brow.  She  had  a  word  for  each  ; 
and  that  word  was  spoken  with  an  unusual  tender- 


128  THE    MOTHER.' 

ness  of  expression.  Fanny  looked  earnestly  into 
her  mother's  face,  when  she  observed  the  change, 
and  drew  close  up  to  her  side. 

"You  love  me,  dear  mother,  don't  you  ?"  whis- 
pered the  child,  close  to  her  ear. 

"  Love  you,  my  child  !  O,  yes  !  A  thousand 
times  more  than  I  can  tell."  And  she  kissed  her 
fervently. 

"  And  the  angels  in  heaven  love  Lillian,  don't 
they  r" 

"  Yes,  love,"  Mrs.  Hartley  replied  in  a  husky 
whisper,  struggling  to  keep  the  tears  from  gushing 
from  her  eyes. 

"  I  know  the  good  angels  will  love  her,  and 
take  care  of  her  just  as  well  as  you  did,  mother." 

"  O  yes  ;  and  a  great  deal  better." 

"  Then  we  won't  cry  any  more  because  she  is 
gone." 

"Not  if  we  can  help  it,  love.  But  we  miss  her 
very  much." 

"  Yes.  I  want  to  see  her  all  the  time.  But  I 
know  she  is  in  heaven,  and  I  won't  cry  for  her  to 
come  back." 

The  words  of  Fanny  came  near  effecting  the 
entire  overthrow  of  Mrs.  Hartley's  feelings ;  but 
by  a  vigorous  struggle  with  herself,  she  remained 


A    PAINFUL    BEREAVEMENT.  129 

calm,  and  continued  for  some  time  to  talk  \vith  the 
child  about  Lillian  in  heaven. 

From  this  period,  the  mother's  love  for  her  chil- 
dren flowed  on  again  in  its  wonted  channels,  and 
her  care  for  them  was  as  assiduous  as  ever,  in 
fact,  the  loss  of  one  caused  her  to  draw  her  arms 
more  closely  about  the  rest.  But  she  was  changed  ; 
and  no  one  who  looked  upon  her  could  help  noting 
the  change.  The  quiet  though tfulness  of  her  coun- 
tenance had  given  place  to  a  musing  expression,  as 
if  siie  were,  in  spirit,  far  away  with  some  dearly 
loved  object.  Although  her  love  for  her  children, 
and  her  anxiety  for  their  welfare,  was  increased, 
if  there  was  any  change,  yet  that  love  was  more 
brooding  than  active  in  its  nature.  The  creative 
energy  of  her  mind  appeared  to  have  suffered  a 
slight  paralysis.     The  bow  was  unbent. 

Marien  was  quick  to  perceive  this,  and  by  the 
intuition  of  love,  to  glide  almost  insensibly  into  her 
mother's  place  so  far  as  Henry  and  Fanny  were 
concerned.  The  groundwork  of  home-education 
had  been  so  well  laid  by  the  mother,  that  the  sis- 
ter's task  was  not  a  difficult  one.  She  became 
Henry's  confidante  and  counsellor,  and  led  Fanny 
gently  on  in  the  acquirement  of  good  habits  and 
good  principles. 

If  to  no  one  else,  this   change  was  good  for 


130  THE    MOTHER. 

Marien.  It  gave  her  objects  to  love  intensely,  be- 
cause their  well-being  depended  on  her  conduct 
towards  them,  at  an  age  when  the  heart  needs 
something  upon  which  to  lavish  the  pure  waters 
of  affection  that  begin  to  flow  forth  in  gushing 
profusion. 

Another  effect  was,  to  make  more  distant  the 
period  when  Marien  should  appear  upon  the  stags 
of  life  as  a  woman  ;  and  this  was  no  wrong  to  the 
sweet  maiden.  When  she  did  enter  society  as  a 
"woman,  she  was  a  woman  fully  qualified  to  act 
her  part  with  wisdom  and  prudence. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

AN     I  IVI  P  O  R  T  A  i\  T     ERA     IN     LIFE. 

When  Clarence  returned  from  college,  unscathed 
in  the  ordeal  through  which  he  had  passed,  he  en- 
tered upon  a  course  of  legal  studies.  Law  was  the 
profession  he  chose.  It  most  frequently  happens 
that  brothers,  as  they  approach  manhood,  do  not 
become  intimate  as  companions.  But  it  was  not 
so  in  the  case  of  Clarence  and  Henry.  They  were 
drawn  together  as  soon  as   the  former  returned 


AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIF2.  131 

home.  This  again  tended  to  lessen  the  care  of 
Mrs.  Hartley,  for  Clarence  had  become,  in  one 
sense,  his  brother^s  guardian.  Instead,  now,  of  the 
constant  and  often  intense  exercise  of  mind  to 
which  she  had  been  subjected  for  years  in  the  de- 
termination of  what  course  was  best  to  take  with 
her  chihh'en,  in  order  to  secure  their  greatest  good, 
she  was  more  their  pleasant  companion  than  their 
mentor.  Her  aim  now  was  to  secure  their  unlimit- 
ed confidence,  and  this  she  was  able  to  do.  Their 
mistakes  were  never  treated  with  even  playful  ridi- 
cule ;  but  she  sympathised  earnestly  with  them  in 
every  thing  that  interested  their  minds.  This  led 
them  to  talk  to  her  with  the  utmost  freedom,  and 
gave  her  a  knowledge  of  the  exact  state  of  their 
feelings  in  regard  to  all  the  circumstances  that 
transpired  around  them. 

The  completion  of  Clarence's  twenty-first  year 
was  a  period  to  which  both  the  son  and  mother 
had  looked  with  no  ordinary  interest — but  with 
very  different  feelings.  So  important  an  era,  Mrs. 
Hartley  could  not  let  pass  without  a  long  and  se- 
rious conversation  with  her  son,  or  rather  repeated 
conversations  with  him. 

"From  this  time,  my  son,"  she  said  to  him, 
"  you  are  no  longer  bound  to  your  parents  by  the 
law  of  obedience.     You  are  a  man,  and  must  act 


132  THE    MOTHER. 

in  freedom,  according  to  reason.  Our  precepts  are 
not  to  be  observed  because  we  give  them,  but  are 
to  be  observed  because  you  see  them  to  be  true. 
Heretofore,  your  parents  have  been  responsible  for 
your  conduct  to  society,  our  country,  and  the  Lord. 
But  now,  you  alone  are  responsible.  Upon  the 
wav  in  which  you  exercise  tiie  freedom  you  now 
enjoy,  will  depend  your  usefulness  as  a  man,  and 
your  eternal  state  hereafter.  You  stand,  in  perfect 
freedom,  between  the  powers  of  good  and  evil — 
heaven  and  hell — with  the  ability  to  turn  yourself 
to  either.  You  are  free  to  choose,  this  day,  whom 
you  will  serve.  Choose,  my  son,  with  wisdom — 
let  your  paths  be  those  of  peace  and  pleasantness. 
I  have  never  fully  explained  to  you  what  I  am  now 
anxious  for  you  to  comprehend.     It  is  this : — 

^'•The  Lord  holds  no  human  being  responsible 
for  his  acts,  until  he  has  arrived  at  adult  years, 
when  his  reasoning  faculties  are  fully  developed, 
and  he  can  discriminate,  in  his  own  mind,  clearly 
between  good  and  evil.  Up  to  this  time,  a  wise 
provision  is  made  for  him  in  the  love,  guidance 
and  protection  of  parents  or  masters,  whose  duty 
it  is  to  restrain  all  his  hereditary  evil  tendencies, 
and  to  store  his  mind  with  good  principles,  to  serve 
him  when  the  time  of  pupihge  is  ended,  and  he 
comes  to  act  for  himself.     Heretofore  I  have  fully 


AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIFE.  133 

explained  to  you  man's  present  state  and  condition. 
He  is  not  in  the  order  in  which  he  was  created. — 
His  will  and  his  understanding  are  not,  as  they 
were  at  first,  in  unison.  His  will  is  thoroughly 
corrupted,  but  his  understanding  is  yet  capable  of 
seeing  the  truth — of  rising  even  into  the  light  of 
heaven.  If  we  were  to  follow  the  promptings  of 
our  will,  or  natural  affections,  we  would  inevita- 
bly sink  into  the  indulgence  of  all  evil  passions; 
but  we  are  not  only  gifted  with  the  power  of  see- 
ing what  is  fair  and  true,  but  our  freedom  is  so 
fully  preserved  by  the  Lord,  that  we  can  compel 
ourselves  to  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  truth. 
As  soon  as  we  begin  to  do  this,  we  begin  to  gain  a 
real  power  over  oiir  hereditary  evil  tendencies. 
No  obedience  to  parents  can  possibly  remove  from 
our  minds  a  naturally  corrupt  principle ;  it  will 
only  keep  it  in  quiescence  until  we  come  to  years 
of  freedom  and  rationality ;  after  that  it  must  be 
removed  by  our  shunning  its  indulgence  in  act  or 
intention,  as  a  sin  against  God.  You  see,  then, 
that  now  your  parents'  work  has  ended,  yours  has 
begun." 

'^  Don't  say  your  work  is  ended,  my  mother," 

Clarence  said  with  much  feeling,  and  an  expression 

of  deep  concern  upon  his  face.     "It  cannot  be. 

As  before,  your  advice  and  counsel  must  be  good. 

12 


134  THE    MOTHER. 

I  will  not  believe  that  I  am  no  longer  to  obey  you 
— O  no  !  no !" 

"  In  a  supreme  sense,  Clarence,  the  Lord  is  your 
father,  and  his  Church  your  mother;  and  to  them 
alone  are  you  now  required  to  give  supreme  obe- 
dience, and  to  love  with  your  highest,  purest,  and 
best  affections.  But  that  need  not  cause  you  to 
love  your  natural  father  and  mother  the  less.  You 
say  truly,  that  our  work  is  not  yet  done.  Our 
counsel  will  still  be  given,  but  you  must  not  follow 
it  because  we  have  given  it,  but  because,  in  the 
light  of  your  own  mind,  you  perceive  that  it  ac- 
cords with  the  truth;  for  you  must  never  forget, 
that  accordina:  to  your  o?i*n  deeds  will  you  be  justi- 
fied or  condemned.  We  will  not  love  you  less, 
nor  be  less  anxious  for  your  welfare;  but,  being  a 
man.  you  must  act  as  a  man,  in  freedom  according 
to  reason." 

The  recollection  of  this  conversation  often  made 
Clarence  sigh. 

"  Ah !"  he  would  sometimes  say  to  himself, — 
^^  man's  estate  is  not,  after  all,  so  desirable  a  thing 
to  attain.  It  was  much  easier  to  lie  upon  my  mo- 
ther's bosom,  than  it  is  to  fight  my  way  through 
life,  amid  its  thousand  temptations," 

The  formal  and  serious  manner  in  which  Mrs. 
Hartley  had  conversed   with  Clarence,  caused  all 


AN    IMPORTANT    ERA    IN    LIFE.  135 

that  she  said  to  be  deeply  impressed  upon  his  mind. 
He  pondered  it  for  weeks.     The  effect  was  good,  ■ 
for  it  saved  him  from  the  thoughtless  tendency  to  f 
mere  pleasure-seeking  into  which  young  men  are  j 
too  apt  to  fall,  on  finding  themselves  entirely  free/! 
from  the  shackles  of  minority.     He  saw  clearly 
and  felt  strongly  the  responsibility  of  his  position. 
But,  accompanying  this  perception,  was  an  earnest- 
ly formed  resolution  to  overcome  in  every  tempta- 
tion that  might  assail  him. 

"  I  can  conquer,  and  I  will,"  he  said,  in  the 
confidence  that  he  felt  in  the  more  than  human 
strength  that  those  receive  who  fight  against  evil. 

It  was  not  long  before  life's  conflicts  began  in 
earnest  with  him;  but  it  is  not  our  business  to 
speak  of  them,  further  than  to  say,  that  he  was 
subjected  to  strong  trials,  to  severe  temptations,  to 
cares  and  anxieties  of  no  ordinary  kind,  and  that 
the  remains  of  good  and  truth  stored  up  in  his 
mind  by  his  mother  saved  him.  As  a  child,  his 
predominant  evil  qualities  were  a  strong  self  will, 
and  extreme  selfishness.  These  had  been  reduced 
by  the  mother's  care  and  watchfulness,  into  a  state 
of  quiescence.  In  manhood,  they  re-appeared,  and 
long  and  intense  was  the  struggle  against  them, 
before  they  yielded  themselves  subject  to  more 
heavenly  principles. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

HAPPY     CO.VSUMIMATIONS. 

Mariex  Hartley  was  twentv-t\vo  years  of  asfe 
when  she  first  began  to  attract  attention  in  society. 
The  impression  she  made  was  a  decided  one. 
People  talked  about  her  for  a  time  as  a  new  won- 
der. Her  grace,  her  intelligence,  her  accomplish- 
ments, and,  not  least,  her  beauty,  won  the  universal 
admiration.  She  was  quickly  surrounded  by  the 
butterflies  of  fashion,  but  they  found  themselves  at 
a  loss  how  to  be  truly  agreeable.  If  they  flattered 
her,  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  them;  if  they 
complimented  her  upon  her  singing,  or  dancing 
she  only  smiled  quietly,  hi  fact,  all  their  usual 
arts  failed.  Some  called  her  cold — others  said  she 
was  as  proud  as  a  duchess ;  while  others  reported 
that  her  heart  was  engaged  to  an  absent  lover. 

Unconscious  of  all  this  agitation  created  by  her 
appearance,  Marien  continued  in  the  afl'ectionate 
performance  of  her  home  duties,  occasionally  ming- 
ling in  society,  less  from  feeling  drawn  thither, 
than  because  she  believed  that  she  owed  something 
to  the  social  as  well  as  to  the  family  circle. 
136 


I 

HAPPY    COiVSUMMATIONS.  137 

Once  more  was  the  liveliest  maternal  interest 
awakened  in  the  bosom  of  Mrs.  Hartley.  Now 
was  the  most  critical  period  in  her  daughter's  life. 
Her  heart  could  not  long  remain  uninterested  ;  but 
whose  hand  should  touch  the  precious  fountain, 
and  unseal  its  pure  waters  }  That  was  the  anxious 
question. 

Evening  visiters  were  becoming  more  and  more 
frequent.  On  every  new  appearance  of  Marien  in 
company,  would  some  new  acquaintance  call. — 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hartley,  unlike  most  parents,  who, 
very  considerately  remembering  how  it  was  with 
themselves,  "leave  the  young  people  alone,"  al- 
ways made  it  a  point  to  be  present,  with  other 
members  of  the  family,  when  any  visiter  called  to 
spend  an  evening.  Clarence,  who  was  fully  in  his 
mother's  confidence,  remained  at  home  a  great  deal 
during  these  occasions,  in  order  to  swell  the  parlor 
circle,  and  to  add  to  the  pleasures  of  conversation, 
music,  or  other  modes  that  might  be  resorted  to 
for  passing  an  hour. 

This  way  of  doing  things  was  not  at  all  relished 
by  some  who  were  all  eagerness  to  secure  the 
favor  of  Marien.  Among  those  who  occasionally 
dropped  in,  was  a  young  man  who  generally  spent 
more  time  in  conversing  with  the  mother  than  with 

the  daughter.     If  his  design  had  been  first  to  con- 
J3* 


138  THE    MOTHER. 

ciliate  Mrs.  Hartley,  his  plan  was  certainly  a  good 
one.  But  he  was  innocent  of  any  design  further 
than  to  gain  opportunities  for  observing  closely  the 
character  and  disposition  of  Marien.  He  had  am- 
ple means  for  supporting  a  wife,  and  had  been 
looking  about  him  for  one  at  least  a  year.  The 
first  impression  m.ade  upon  him  by  Marien  was 
favorable.  He  was  not  struck  by  her  beauty  and 
accomplishments  half  so  much  as  by  the  sentiments 
which  he  occasionally  heard  fall  from  her  lips. 
The  way  in  which  her  parents  guarded  her,  he 
saw  and  understood  at  once,  and  this  strengthened 
his  belief  that  she  was  a  precious  treasure  for  him 
who  could  wnn  her  heart. 

While  he  observed  her  at  a  distance,  as  it  were^ 
others  were  clustering  around  her,  and  using  every 
art  to  gain  her  favor.  But,  even  while  they  were 
pressing  for  attention,  her  eye  was  wandering  away 
to  him,  and  often  the  words  they  uttered  were  un- 
heard in  her  recollection  of  sentiments  which  he 
had  spoken.  Why  this  was  so,  Marien  did  not  ask 
herself.  She  did  not  even  notice  the  fact.  When 
the  young  man,  at  last,  began  to  make  advances, 
siie  received  them  with  an  inward  pleasure  unfelt 
before.  This  did  not  escape  the  mother's  watchful 
eve.  But  she  had  no  word  to  say  in  objection. 
Long   before    any  serious   inroad    upon    Marian's 


HAPPY    CONSUMMATIONS.  139 

affections  had  been  made,  father,  mother,  and  bro- 
ther were  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  young 
man's  family,  standing  and  character.  They  were 
unexceptionable. 

When  he,  finally,  made  application  for  her  hand, 
he  received,  promptly,  this  answer : — 

"  Take  her,  and  may  she  be  to  you  as  good  a 
wife  as  she  has  been  to  us  a  child." 

Marien  was  twenty-three  years  of  age,  when  she 
became  a  wedded  wife.  Many  wed  younger,  but 
few  as  wisely. 

The  next  event  of  interest  in  the  life  of  Mrs. 
Hartley,  was  the  marriage  of  Clarence,  In  this 
matter  she  was  careful  to  leave  her  son  in  the 
most  perfect  freedom.  Although  from  principle 
she  did  this,  she  was  not  without  great  concern  on 
the  subject,  for  she  well  knew  that  his  whole  char- 
acter would  be  modified  for  good  or  evil  by  his 
wife.  It  is  enough  to  say,  that  Clarence  chose 
wisely. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

CONCLUSION. 

Having  brought  our  readers  to  this  point,  not, 
we  hope,  without  proiit  to  themselves,  we  find  that 
we  have  little  more  to  add.  The  mother's  untiring 
devotion  to  her  children  has  not  been  in  vain. — 
The  good  seed  sown  in  their  minds  has  produced 
a  pleasant  harvest. 

We  could  present  a  strong  and  painful  contrast 
in  the  results  attendant  upon  the  course  pursued 
by  3Irs.  Fielding;  but  we  will  not  do  so.  It  would 
be  of  little  use  to  throw  dark  shades  upon  the  pic- 
ture we  have  drawn.  There  are  few  who  read 
this,  who  cannot  look  around  and  see  the  baleful 
consequences  that  have  followed  neglect  and  in- 
difference such  as  were  manifested  by  Mrs.  Field- 
ing towards  her  children.  The  instances  are,  alas  .' 
too  numerous. 

In  closing  this  volume,  the  author  would  remark 
to  those  who  may  feel  disappointed  in  not  finding 
it  so  full  of  incident  and  description  as  they  had 
140 


CONCLUSIOIS'.  141 

expected,  that  to  have  given  it  a  lighter  character 
M'oukl  have  required  the  sacrifice  of  much  that  he 
wished  to  say.  The  subject  is  one  so  full  of  in- 
terest to  a  certain  class,  that  no  charms  of  fiction 
were  required  to  hold  their  attention.  To  have 
extended  our  book  further,  or  to  have  introduced 
a  greater  variety  of  scenes,  would  have  occupied 
the  time  and  attention  of  the  reader  to  very  little 
purpose.  To  those  who  have  read  aright,  enough 
has  been  said — volumes  would  do  no  good  to 
those  who  have  not. 


THE  END. 


V 


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